The moment Jacob vanished in a flash of light, the pleasant façade Samuel had worn crumbled like wet parchment. His smile faded entirely, and the glint in his eyes dulled into something much colder. He didn't move from where he sat, didn't even glance around, he simply exhaled, slow and irritated, before speaking aloud to the seemingly empty room.

"And why," he said in a low, sharp voice, "must I be subjected to this disgusting sensation in the middle of what was turning into a perfectly enjoyable conversation?"

He appeared to be talking to no one, but a breath later, a faint snort echoed through the air, as though someone had scoffed directly beside him. Then, without any shift in the air or flicker of light, a figure emerged, not by appearing suddenly or stepping in from another space, but rather by becoming visible, like he had always been present and merely chose this moment to allow himself to be seen.

The man who revealed himself stood tall, just over six feet, his frame wrapped in a flowing, dark blue robe that shimmered faintly in the low light of the room. A hood shadowed his face, though a thick, neatly trimmed brown beard could be seen beneath it. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, almost gentle, but carried a tone of condescension that suggested he believed himself above most people in the room, Samuel included.

"To refer to the power of God as 'disgusting,'" he said, "is a line I'd advise you to tread carefully, Prince Samuel."

Emblazoned on the front of his robe was a red circle enclosing an eerie, symbolic image: three figures hanging from ropes, heads bowed in death, while in the distance, a massive, singular eye gazed upon them in silence. It wasn't drawn like an emblem; it felt more like a warning.

Samuel didn't bother hiding his disdain. He scoffed openly and sat back in his seat, the tension in his jaw returning. "Borrowed power," he muttered, voice clipped. "That's all it is. And yes, it's disgusting. It pollutes the air like incense in a sealed room. Now, I assume you haven't come just to irritate me. You were supposed to be at the site. What changed?"

He couldn't see the man's expression under the hood, but he was almost certain there was a smile hidden beneath the shadow.

"Oh, Your Highness," the man replied, voice silk-thin, "I've come to deliver news. There's been... a change of plans."

Samuel arched an eyebrow but said nothing at first. Then, with a sardonic little smile, he reached for his goblet, swirled the drink once, and took a long, deliberate sip. "Wonderful," he said dryly. "Please, go on. Don't mind me, just drinking to numb myself before trying to comprehend the logic of your ilk. It's the only way to stomach the divine."

The robed man didn't react with offense. In fact, he moved with a calm sort of precision, lowering himself into the chair Jacob had left behind. He reached slowly into the folds of his robe, retrieving a small silver statue no taller than a candle. It depicted a kneeling man, hands clutched in prayer, head bowed, eyes sealed shut in eternal supplication.

He set the statue gently on the table between them, almost reverently, and then raised his right hand.

A crimson light pulsed ominously on his right hand, casting a faint glow across his fingers as Samuel recoiled with a grimace, his expression twisting in unmistakable revulsion as he took an instinctive step backward. The man paid no heed to Samuel's reaction, his focus unbroken as he methodically reshaped his right hand, the flesh and bone contorting unnaturally until it tapered into a sharp, blade-like edge. Without so much as a flicker of hesitation, he drove it cleanly through his left palm, the force of the motion tearing a gaping wound that left his hand nearly hollow.

With slow, deliberate precision, he raised his bleeding left hand above the statue, allowing a steady stream of blood to cascade onto its surface. Each droplet that struck the stone was immediately absorbed, vanishing into the statue's unyielding surface as though consumed by an unseen hunger. As the ritual continued, the statue's eyes, previously closed shut, began to part, revealing orbs of deep, unnatural crimson that burned with an unmistakable malice, a silent promise of violence lurking within their depths.

The gruesome exchange persisted for several long minutes, the only sound the soft, rhythmic patter of blood meeting stone, until at last the man withdrew his hand. A shimmering red light enveloped the grievous wound, knitting flesh and sinew back together with impossible speed, leaving no trace of the injury behind.

"It never fails to fascinate me," Samuel said dryly, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly as he shifted back in his chair, "how far you zealots are willing to go, driving holes through your own hands, bleeding out onto little statues in the name of some god."

The robed man, face still obscured beneath the hood, turned his head just slightly as though weighing Samuel's words before responding with a quiet but unwavering voice. "And it never fails to unsettle me," he said, "how a man like you can behave with such ease, so confident and calculating, all while lacking even the pretence of faith. A soul untethered to divinity, yours will be the first to rot when judgment comes."

Samuel gave a small scoff, clearly unimpressed. "Is your god not one of hundreds?" he asked, voice light but with a thin undercurrent of sharpness. "There are gods for rivers, gods for sky, gods for rot and sickness. If they can die, if they can squabble, if they can be ignored then they're nothing but a common race, fighting for relevance."

At the word race, the air around them grew instantly colder, and though the man didn't speak, a dense, suffocating wave of bloodlust surged from beneath his cloak like a tidal force preparing to rise. But just as quickly as it came, it faded, drawn back in as though restrained by unseen hands. The man exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.

"Do not," he warned, his voice now tighter, edged, "refer to the gods as if they are mere mortals given titles. Not in my presence, young prince."

By now, the statue had opened its eyes fully. Its previously lifeless gaze now glowed with a deep crimson, casting an eerie light across the stone table. A soft hum, almost imperceptible, vibrated in the air, and with it came a wave of red energy that rolled out across the room like mist. Samuel didn't flinch. He knew exactly what it was, an anti-eavesdropping ward. Subtle, effective, and sacred.

The man spoke again, this time in a more measured tone. "The plan has changed. We will no longer carry out a mere provocation, however well-designed your suggestion was. That small act of violence may have been enough to stir attention, yes, but we've decided to aim higher."

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Samuel's expression shifted just slightly. His eyes narrowed, and a small, dangerous gleam surfaced. "How high?" he asked, his voice quiet but cold, his smile slowly stretching across his face in a way that made even the cloaked figure hesitate. There was something unnerving in the way he smiled, too wide, too still like a mask stretched over something darker.

The man took a breath, carefully choosing his words. "We're deploying our strongest," he said plainly. "The objective is no longer disruption. The objective is assassination. One of the Eight Pillars must die. Only then will we retreat."

At that, Samuel threw his head back and laughed, not out of joy, but out of something deeper, something bitter and sharp. "You're insane," he said, still smiling as he looked the man dead in the eye. "You do realize that Lazarus, by himself, could wipe out every last one of you if he wanted to?"

"I didn't come here to argue," the man replied, his tone clipped and formal, though tension had begun to show through the cracks. "My task was only to inform you. The decision is made. You are not our leader, and you hold no faith. You are merely a partner in this arrangement. Do not confuse your role."

With that, the man vanished, no sound, no flash, just gone. The wave of red light that had filled the room faded just as quickly. The silver statue, its purpose fulfilled, crumbled into dust and scattered like ash, weightless and silent.

Samuel remained seated for a moment, staring at the empty space where the man had been. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlocked. And he began to laugh again, a low, rolling laugh that grew louder and more unhinged with each breath, echoing through the chamber like a private joke only he could understand.

"You fools," he muttered through his laughter, "you really think you're in control. You think you're strong, that you're acting on your own terms. But look at you, rushing to do exactly what I wanted, and you don't even realize it. Push just a little... and here you are."

He tilted his head back and let the laughter spill out again, louder this time, a grin splitting his face while the last flecks of ash from the statue danced in the still air.

"Bastard," Jacob muttered under his breath the moment the light faded and he reappeared in the hall. The word slipped out more from habit than any real feeling, it was what he would have said under normal circumstances, what anyone might say after being forcibly teleported and taunted. But there was no heat behind it, no weight or emotion pushing the word forward. Just sound, hollow and automatic.

Even now, even when seeking his help, Samuel couldn't resist twisting the knife, bringing up Lucas simply to provoke a reaction. And perhaps what made it worse was that Samuel had succeeded, except the rune robbed Jacob of the capacity to feel that success. He couldn't even be angry about it, not truly. He was aware of what should upset him, aware of what ought to stir rage or pain or indignation, but there was a strange disconnect between knowing and feeling, like reading about someone else's memories rather than living his own.

It was unsettling, though he couldn't find the right word to describe the sensation. Empty came to mind, but it didn't quite fit. He wasn't hollow, exactly. Just off. Like something vital had been temporarily removed, and all that remained was a quiet curiosity about himself, one that urged him to observe, to analyse his own thoughts as if he were a puzzle to be solved.

Only then did he take proper stock of his surroundings. He glanced around and was surprised to find that he had been placed directly beside the table where Castor and Elly sat. They were both staring at him, expressions frozen somewhere between confusion and disbelief, and Jacob couldn't blame them, he had, after all, appeared out of thin air in front of half the hall.

'Well, I don't feel nervous,' he thought, glancing at the two of them in turn. 'So, should I speak to them?'

He didn't hesitate. Without the usual dread or tension clutching his chest, the decision felt simple, almost logical. He let out a quiet chuckle, forcing a polite smile onto his face as he slid into the empty chair beside them. Turning to Castor first, he nodded. "Long time no see, huh?"

Castor didn't respond at first. Whether he was still processing Jacob's abrupt appearance or struggling to decide how to react, Jacob couldn't tell, and, in truth, he didn't care much either. The emotional weight of their shared history, the layers of misunderstanding and silence, all felt far away at the moment.

Elly, however, didn't hesitate. She leaned back in her seat, arms crossed with a theatrical pout, her tone sharp but not truly biting. "Hmph. You greet Castor and ignore me? I guess I'm not important enough to acknowledge anymore."

Jacob turned to her, catching the glint in her eye, the one that told him she wasn't actually upset. The exaggerated frown, the tilt of her head, it was all a performance, familiar and oddly comforting.

"Shouldn't I greet the prince first?" he replied, his voice light. Then he turned back toward Castor, reaching into his pocket as he added, "By the way, happy birthday."

After a few seconds of rummaging, his fingers closed around a small object, and he drew it out: a pale-yellow stone, smooth and polished, humming faintly with energy. Holding it up for a moment, he reached for Castor's hand, gently pried it open, and placed the stone in his palm.

"A mana stone," he explained. "You can embed it into a weapon, gives it a lightning affinity. It's not much, but it's useful."

It was one of the last valuable things Jacob still owned, but he didn't hesitate to give it away. If he wanted to rebuild bridges, to salvage something from what they used to have then gestures like this were necessary. He had no emotional attachment to the item right now, which made it easier to part with. But even if the rune wore off and all the weight of his old doubts returned, this would remain a decision he had made, not out of guilt or pressure, but with clear and steady reasoning.

'I actually have to thank Samuel,' he thought dryly, watching as Elly eyed the mana stone with interest and Castor studied him in silence. Without the rune dulling his fear, without the smothering pressure of his own guilt or hesitation, he doubted he would've approached them at all let alone spoken so easily.

Whether or not the conversation continued from here didn't matter yet. For now, he had taken the first step, and somehow, in his strange state of mind, that felt like enough.

Eventually, Castor seemed to gather himself, blinking a few times before speaking. "Jacob, you're here? Why?" he asked, the question spilling out with a mix of surprise and hesitation. But then, as if realizing how it might sound, his expression shifted and he quickly added, "Not that I don't want you here, your presence is absolutely welcome. It's just… well, I think my shock is understandable."

Jacob let out a quiet laugh at Castor's flustered attempt to recover, a slight, deliberate curl of his lips accompanying the sound. "I just felt like talking to you," he replied simply. "Is that really so surprising? Aren't we friends?"

Maybe if he'd still had his emotions intact, he would've felt a pang of guilt or shame saying that, after two years of near silence, it might've seemed too bold, too presumptuous, but now, without that inner weight pressing on him, it just felt like a logical move. He understood that re-establishing a sense of friendship, of familiarity, would be the most effective way to close the distance that had grown between them.

And it seemed to work. Castor's face lit up almost immediately, the earlier awkwardness vanishing behind a wide, genuine grin. "Yes! Of course we're friends," he said with renewed energy. "There's no reason needed to talk to your friend. I'm glad you came. So… what did you want to talk about?"

Jacob paused for a moment, letting the question hang between them as he reached out and plucked a glass from a tray balanced expertly by a passing servant. He took a sip without really tasting it, more out of habit than thirst, and his thoughts quietly turned inward.

'I should be happy,' he thought, watching the way Castor looked at him with that open smile, eyes bright and full of earnestness. 'I should be happy that he accepted me so quickly, that it feels like nothing ever changed.'

But he wasn't.

He knew that. Every smile he gave was shallow, every response calculated. He wasn't feeling anything, not joy, not guilt, not relief. He was aware of how he should feel, could even map the contours of the emotion in his mind, but he couldn't touch it. The gap between understanding and feeling was too wide, too empty.

So he smiled again, because it was expected, and leaned back in his seat like he belonged there. It was going well. Objectively, everything was going well.

And yet, as he swirled the liquid in his glass and listened to the sounds of the banquet continuing in the background, Jacob found himself thinking, 'This is going to be a long day.'

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