The Present

“It’s finished,” Wiley stated as he casually strode into the room. 

Calais, the king of the Corrupted, sat with one elbow propped up on his desk. A smile tugged at his lips at the sight of him. “Did he give you any trouble?”

Calais’s dark hair fell around a face so handsome one could easily forget it was blanketed with scars. The older man looked more like a warrior forced into formal clothes than a king. The red, silken shirt he wore was unbuttoned, his loose black robes falling in ripples from his broad shoulders. Glistening silver thread shot up the sides and down the sleeve, two ruby cufflinks the only embellishment.

The war weathered king looked rather out of place amongst the room’s ornate architecture. The smooth jade floor and fluttering chiffon curtains were in the style of the Blessed’s nobility. One could clearly tell this had been one of their palaces before the Corrupted had taken it in the rebellion. No, taken wasn’t the right word. They’d reclaimed it. 

“Trouble? Not really,” Wiley remarked, mindlessly picking up a circular glass ornament that had been resting on Calais’s desk. “Honestly, his plan was so terrible I actually felt kinda embarrassed for him.” 

“Really?” Calais mused. “What exactly did poor Edmund do?”

“He got his hands on an obscene number of spiritually infused weapons,” Wiley replied. “The moron thought if his men had them they actually stood a chance at killing me.” He chuckled, tossing the ornament into the air and catching it with his other hand. “You can probably guess how well that worked out.” 

“Good boy,” Calais remarked with a smile. “So, you up for another job?” 

Wiley’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Hmm, I’ll have to check my schedule. I’m pretty booked being the boogeyman for half the nation’s children. Pair that with my alleged daily bouts of pillaging towns and murdering innocents and my week is awfully jam packed.” He tossed the desk ornament back into the air, doing a little spin as he easily caught it once more. “You know how it is.”

“Well then, maybe this will entice you,” Calais replied, his expression growing rather serious. “The Golden Sanctuary is involved.” 

The words caused Wiley to instantly freeze. His blood ran cold. The ornament nearly slipped from his grip. Quickly, Wiley caught himself, masking his shock behind an easy smile. “The Golden Sanctuary?”  

Calais nodded. “We’ve received word that the Blessed’s king is bringing a powerful spiritual artifact to his palace at Papilionem City. He plans to use it as a centerpiece for the party he’s hosting in a fortnight.” From the grimace on his face, it was obvious Calais was a warrior first and a king second. The mere thought of using such an object as a party decoration was absolutely nauseating to him. 

Wiley let out a snort of laughter despite himself. “Yeah, that sounds like typical Cherie.”

He’d have expected nothing less from the infamous ‘Brat Prince’ turned king. Honestly, such a shameless act of decadence was just scratching the surface when it came to Cherie’s outrageously ostentatious behavior. Wiley used to tease him for it relentlessly in their youth. 

The thought caused his smile to falter, a painful reminder that things were different now.

Cherie was no longer the friend he used to play hooky with, no longer the enthusiastic supporter of his childhood schemes, nor his pranking partner in crime. He was an enemy now. Just like the rest of them. 

Wiley swallowed back the bitterness in his throat, continuing the conversation. “So, do you want me to steal the artifact?” 

“No,” Calais replied with a single shake of his head. “Several disciples from the Golden Sanctuary will be coming to protect the item while it's on display at the event. They’re the ones I’m after.”

Wiley arched a brow. “Oh?”

Calais’s fingers laced together, his elbows still propped up on the desk. “An informant has told me that one among them is the current Chief of Artifacts. He and His Holiness are the only ones who know the location of the Holy Mausoleum.”

Ah yes, the Holy Mausoleum. Within lay every man who’d once claimed the title of His Holiness, including the one Wiley had sent to the grave himself. Buried alongside them were countless artifacts, weapons, and sacred writings. It was only natural Calais was jumping at the chance to finally have access to it.

“I want you to capture the Golden Sanctuary disciples upon their arrival,” Calais continued, his mouth curving upward. “Then torture them unil the Chief of Artifacts reveals himself and gives up the Mausoleum’s location.” 

“And after?” Wiley questioned, absently turning the desk ornament over in his hand. 

“Leave their heads in front of the palace as a party gift,” Calais replied with a smirk. “Might as well send the king a little message while we’re at it.” His expression remained pleasant but something dark had crept into his gaze. “You’ll be able to handle it, won’t you?”

Wiley forced a smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because...” Calais murmured, his gaze flickering over Wiley’s strained expression, “I often fear that the Golden Sanctuary is the one weakness of my near perfect assassin.” 

The corners of Wiley’s mouth had begun to ache from keeping his unwavering grin in place. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve long since destroyed any lingering childhood attachment to that place.”

“Even to Rosaire?” Calais questioned. 

At His Holiness's mention, Wiley’s fingers instinctively curled so tightly around the desk ornament that his knuckles went white. “Yes, especially to Rosaire.”

The name burned his tongue. 

It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to say it. 

How could one word, just a few meager letters, make him feel like he was being ripped apart from the inside out. He could hardly breathe, suffocating beneath a sea of distorted emotions that continued to twist together until even he couldn’t discern them. After all, the burn of hatred and love felt painfully similar. 

Wiley didn’t let any of this show on his face, of course. Instead, he simply forced the feelings down, continuing to hide them behind the mask of a smile. He’d gotten incredibly good at it after a lifetime of practice. 

Wiley let out a low chuckle, leaning forward as he placed the circular ornament back onto the desk with a dull—thunk. “Trust me, Your Majesty, I can easily complete this mission.” His lips pulled upwards into a cruel smirk. “I assure you, the lives of those at the Golden Sanctuary mean absolutely nothing to me.” 

Perhaps if he just kept repeating the lie then eventually he’d finally believe it too.