The night was heavy, not just with silence—but with something deeper, like the world itself felt unreal—as if none of this was ever meant to be.

It had only been an hour since the tragedy in Khargrin. The palace bell had rung just once, but the silence that followed felt heavier than the sound itself—the bell’s echo didn’t fall like an ending, but lingered, quiet and deliberate, as if something beneath the silence had just begun to awaken.

Far from the capital, in the western wing of a quiet custodial facility, a small, dimly lit room held the man they believed responsible.

He was bound to a chair—arms wrenched behind him, legs tied tight. His head drooped forward. Blood clung to the edge of his lip—dark, and already dry.

A low grunt escaped him.

"Hey! Wake up." The voice was sharp. Not shouted—but close.

A flickering lantern swung above, casting uneven light across the man’s face.

He blinked slowly, "Is that... a light?" His voice cracked, his eyes twitched, trying to adjust.

Heavy footsteps approached.

A pause.

Then—crack. A palm met his cheek.

"I said wake up. Don’t keep us waiting." The sentry’s voice sharpened—laced with frustration.

The prisoner gasped, as if his mind had only now caught up with his body.

He looked around in confusion. "Where... where am I? What’s going on?"

The room around him was dim and stale. The walls were made of damp stone, the kind that clung to the cold and whispered of mold. A single lantern swung slowly from a rusted hook above, casting flickering shadows across the cracked floor. The chair he was bound to creaked with every movement—wooden, uneven, with iron rings fastened to its legs and backrest.

Another guard stepped forward, ready to strike again—but then, in the blink of an eye, the Interrogator appeared. His presence was sudden, his stare cold.

One hand shot forward—firm and deliberate—catching the sentry’s wrist mid-swing.

The room froze.

No one had sensed his arrival—as if he’d been there the whole time, watching.

Even the prisoner sat in stunned silence, unsure how to react. Somewhere in the fog of his mind, a thought surfaced: Where did he come from?

But the sentry didn’t flinch. His anger only hardened.

"You’re asking that now?" he snapped, eyes sharp with disbelief. "You really don’t remember what you did?"

His jaw was tight. He looked like he was barely holding back something worse than another slap.

Before the prisoner could respond, a voice cut through the air.

"Enough."

Cold. Calm. Final.

The Interrogator stepped forward, his boots soundless on the stone floor. He moved like a shadow given weight—dressed in a dark coat that draped down to his calves, buttoned to the throat. His features were sharp but strangely unreadable, as though the dim light refused to fully reveal him. Only his eyes gleamed—not with anger, but with calculation.

He circled to the front of the room, pulled a chair opposite the prisoner, and sat down with slow, deliberate ease. His posture was straight, composed. One gloved hand rested on the table between them—the other remained loosely at his side.

"Leave us," he said, without lifting his gaze.

The sentries hesitated—then obeyed. Their boots echoed briefly before the heavy iron door groaned shut, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than their presence.

Now alone, the Interrogator leaned forward slightly.

The lantern’s glow caught the edge of his cheekbone, casting a long, crooked shadow down his face.

His tone didn’t shift, but its weight did. "Let’s start with what matters—what do you remember of the incident?"

The prisoner blinked, his eyes unfocused. A tremor passed through his voice. "Wha—what incident... are you talking about?"

His words broke unevenly, like they had to climb out of something deeper than confusion. He looked lost, disoriented—as if waking into a nightmare someone else had written for him.

"You’re asking about the incident they believe you caused?" The Interrogator regarded him oddly, doubt threading his voice—not accusing, not convinced. Just watching.

"A citizen confessed to seeing you before the incident," he said. Then he told him what had happened.

There had been an event—one that took place every four years: the Concord of Stars Festival, a tradition rooted in ancient belief. It was said that during this rare celestial alignment of four stars, the world briefly regained its true axis—a moment of universal harmony, before the balance shifted once more. Legends called it the heartbeat of the world. And when that heartbeat faltered... calamity was never far behind.

It was more than just a celebration.

The Concord of Stars was said to be the moment when the heavens remembered their shape—when the scattered stars above realigned into their original pattern, if only for a breath. During those few sacred hours, the world was believed to tilt back into balance. Some whispered that even time flowed truer beneath the alignment—that memories long buried could stir, and truths lost to history might flicker back into light.

That night, the streets of Khargrin glowed with thousands of lanterns, each one lit by hand and strung between rooftops. The air shimmered with soft music, the hush of prayers, and the laughter of children. Even the castle’s tallest tower bore a silver banner, said to catch the stars’ blessing if it fluttered at just the right moment.

That night was meant to be peace.

But then—the world cracked.

An explosion erupted at the heart of the Kingdom. The ground shuddered. The sky recoiled. And the celebration dissolved into screams.

During the festival, a citizen claimed to have seen a boy—you—playing with his daughter among the lantern-lit streets. But moments later, he said, you took her hand and led her away. Curious, perhaps concerned, he followed.

He trailed the two of you to the left side wall of the Castle, near a shadowed alcove where an old passage was hidden. It was once used by thieves generations ago, long since sealed shut, or so it was believed.

The man’s eyes widened when he saw you approach the passage.

"Hey! What are you doi—"

But before he could finish his warning, you slipped inside.

He tried to follow—but the entry was narrow, sealed by rusted iron and age. After several attempts, he gave up. Instead, he ran to the Castle’s main gate, hoping to alert the guards. But when he arrived... there was no one, not a single sentry, not even a general.

He told us he thought, perhaps, they had already discovered you. He turned to leave quietly with his daughter.

And then—it happened.

The explosion.

The blast tore through the Castle. Stone and flame burst into the sky. The festival's joy fractured under the weight of terror.

He was devastated.

And minutes later—he saw you. Alone. Injured. Staggering out of the shadows... before collapsing in the street.

The Interrogator’s eyes narrowed.

"They believe you committed the crime." His voice was even, but firm. "So tell me—what really happened?"

This time, it wasn’t a question. It was a command.

The prisoner’s eyes widened.

The words echoed—but it wasn’t just the words. It was the realization behind them.

The explosion... had happened inside the Castle.

A cold shiver threaded down his spine, followed by a creeping thought—one that lodged itself deep in his gut.

Had I... unknowingly committed more than a crime?

His breath caught.

“The explosion…”

His hands trembled.

“It… it was in the Castle?” His voice cracked, barely louder than a whisper. There was fear in it. But something else too. Dread.

"Yes," the Interrogator replied, gaze sharp, unflinching.

"And you killed the King."

Time halted.

A flicker of something stirred behind the prisoner’s eyes—a glimpse of memory, or something like it. But it was hazy, distorted... blocked by something he couldn’t name. Something unnatural.

Pain followed.

Sharp. Immediate. Like a blade had split through the center of his skull.

His body lurched. He let out a strangled sound—and then everything went dark.