POV: Michael
The boy was still sitting by the window when Michael passed back through the orphanage foyer.
The woman at the podium was folding the last of the blankets when he slowed beside her again.
He didn't look at her. Just tilted his head slightly toward the child.
"What's his name?"
She looked up, caught the line of his gaze, and then softened just a little.
"Nero."
Michael didn't nod. Didn't smile.
He just turned and walked out into the cool hush of Fortuna's evening.
The city breathed, even in the dark.
Golden lanterns flickered on high arches and carved walkways. Holy inscriptions glimmered inlaid into the sides of buildings—ancient script that twisted like roots in marble. Cathedrals rose like sleeping titans, their spires wound in red silk and draped with the crest of Sparda.
Worshipers moved through the streets with ritual precision.
Lighting candles. Whispering prayers. Kneeling in perfect rows beneath stone angels frozen in eternal vigil.
The streets were spotless.
No litter. No graffiti. Not even a chipped tile out of place.
It was too clean.
Michael walked slower now—not because he was tired, but because the city demanded it. Because Fortuna didn't want to be rushed.
A stone bridge stretched across a quiet canal ahead, its balustrades carved with scenes of angelic warfare—seraphs locked in battle with horned beasts, halos clashing against flame. Beneath the bridge, glowing blue water shimmered with enchantment, pulled from the ley channels beneath the city's heart.
Michael paused at the center of the bridge.
He looked up.
The stars were faint above Fortuna—outshone by sacred fire and artificial halos of light strung across the rooftops like chains of gold.
It was beautiful.
Too beautiful.
So a demon and a human had a child.
He thought of the boy's white hair.
I wonder which side he'll grow into. Or if he even gets to choose.
Michael continued walking, slipping down a narrow alley where lanterns gave way to gentle shadow. The polished grandeur thinned out here. He passed shuttered bakeries, closed florists, storefronts locked behind enchanted sigils.
He stepped out into a square framed by ivy-choked walls and soft amber light.
At its far end stood a two-story inn built into the city's old outer wall—sloped roof, dark shingles, thick oak beams. Weathered vines curled around the windows. A wooden sign swayed gently above the door:
The Silver Hearth – Lodging & Meals
Michael pushed the door open.
Warmth and the smell of roast herbs hit him immediately. The lobby was quiet, lit by soft lamplight. Wooden floors creaked under his boots.
Behind the counter stood a tall man with short gray-streaked hair, dressed in simple linens. He looked up, startled for half a second at Michael's silhouette—coat, sword hilt, silent presence.
Then he recovered with a polite nod. "Evening. How can I help you?"
Michael stepped forward, resting his gloved hand on the counter. "I need a room. Best you've got."
The man hesitated. "For how long?"
"Five nights."
The man nodded, tapping a few runes into a glowing crystal panel behind the counter. "Private suite. West wing. Top floor. King bed. Balcony. Enchanted locks."
Michael slid a silver card from his coat and laid it on the counter.
"Run it."
The man took it, worked quickly. The crystal panel chimed softly. He returned the card and slid a carved brass key across the counter.
"Room 3A," he said. "Straight up the stairs, far end of the hall."
Michael turned to go.
But the man cleared his throat.
"Sorry if it's too forward," he said, voice lower now. "But if you don't mind me asking… what line of work are you in?"
Michael paused.
He shifted slightly, letting just enough of his coat fall aside for the light to catch the curved hilt of Ashen Mercy.
"Demon hunter."
The man blinked.
His polite smile froze for a moment. Then returned—just a bit tighter than before.
"Well… I hope the room suits you."
Michael looked back with a faint smirk. "Hope I don't end up working in it."
The suite was quiet, high above the street. Wide windows overlooked the city square, where cathedral towers loomed like watchful gods. The sky had darkened fully now, and wind pressed gently against the frames.
Michael hung his coat over a wooden chair. He set his duffel near the dresser, then unsheathed Ashen Mercy and laid it across the desk. The blade hummed faintly in the lamplight—its red runes pulsing with slow, calm energy.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the far cathedral spire.
The city whispered to him.
Not in words.
Just in silence too perfect to trust.
Eventually, he lay down, back against the covers, one arm draped across his chest.
The dawn light hadn't broken yet.
But it would.
Soon.
And when it did—he'd be ready.