Kristen Wright stood in a descending elevator, its hum a steady pulse against the sterile silence of Columbia's underground medical facility.
Flanking her were a group of doctors in hazmat suits, their visors reflecting the dim lights, their movements tense as they clutched data tablets tracking the nobles' deteriorating conditions.
Scents of antiseptic and the faint hum of Originium-powered machinery filled the air.
As the elevator reached the ground level, the doors slid open, revealing a cavernous chamber—a sprawling room of cold steel and glass, its walls lined with medical stations and cryogenic pods.
Kristen emerged with a steely resolve, her shadowed eyes sweeping the scene.
With their patients strapped to gurneys, crystalline lesions glinting on their skin, and their faces twisted in silent agony, doctors in hazmat suits moved methodically among the nobles.
The nobles—once Columbia's elite bussinesman, now broken by Hamelin's pathogen—were being surveyed one last time.
But that would end today.
The new plan, under Kristen's directive, was to transfer them to cryogenic pods, where they would be placed in an eternal sleep.
She descended a metal staircase, her boots clanging softly, her gaze fixed on the glass window separating her from the chamber.
From the other side, she watched the doctors work, their movements precise, detached.
Suddenly, a figure approached the window—a noblewoman, her steps slow, deliberate, her cane tapping against the floor with a rhythmic thud.
She was a Caprinae, her short, curved horns a faded ivory, her once-lustrous grey fur now dulled by age and illness.
Lady Elara Montague, a baroness of middling standing among Columbia's nobility, her wealth modest compared to the many others but enough to secure her a foothold in Columbia's corporate landscape.
She paused in front of the window and turned to face Kristen, her pale amber eyes brimming with weary wisdom.
"Lady Wright", Elara greeted, her voice soft but clear, carrying the refined accent of Victoria's old courts.
A doctor nearby hurried over, placing a small round chair for her.
She waved a gloved hand, her tone firm.
"I need a moment—leave us."
With a nod, the doctor stepped back, and Kristen drew a chair to sit on her side of the window, letting their voices flow freely through the sound-permeable glass.
Elara sat, her cane resting across her lap, her amber eyes searching Kristen's face.
"How much time do we have, child?" she asked, her tone heavy with the weight of inevitability.
Kristen, as if expecting the question, answered without hesitation.
"Twenty-four hours."
Elara nodded slowly, her gaze drifting to the gurneys beyond, then back to Kristen. "And what comes after that? What fate have you carved for us?"
Kristen's voice was steady, devoid of warmth but not cruel.
"You'll be placed in eternal sleep—cryogenic pods. The virus… it won't let you die, not truly. It keeps you in constant pain, rewrites your body to endure. This is the only way to spare you that torment."
Elara let out a small, dry laugh, her cane tapping lightly against the floor.
"An eternal sleep," she mused, her voice tinged with a bitter nostalgia.
"A fitting end, perhaps, for those who've lived too long in the light of their own delusions."
She paused, her amber eyes glinting with a reflective sheen.
"I always knew something terrible would come for us. Not in the way of swords or fire, but in the quiet, creeping way of consequence.
"Do you believe in consequence, Lady Wright?"
Kristen's jaw tightened, her shadowed eyes unreadable, but she didn't respond.
Elara continued, her voice softening, as if speaking to herself.
"Columbia truly has come far."
"From a Victorian colony to now Terra's first democratic nation."
As she whispered softly, reminiscing of ancient stories told to her by her mother.
"In contrast to the noble-ruled land like Victoria, it is now a beacon of hope and evolution."
"When the crisis struck Victoria, when the Dukes tore each other apart in their lust for power, we lesser nobles had no place in their game."
Her cane tapped again, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"We were forced to flee—hunted, falsely accused, or killed in the crossfire of their ambition."
"I saw friends fall, their names smeared, their bodies left in the streets. We sought asylum elsewhere, and Colombia opened its arms… but not out of kindness."
She looked at Kristen, her gaze piercing.
"In exchange for our wealth, our support, they gave us lands, businesses, a new start."
"I came for survival, for a chance to rebuild, as did many others. But deep down, I knew our nature wouldn't change. We are creatures of habit, of greed, moulded by centuries of privilege."
Elara's voice grew quieter, her words heavy with self-awareness.
"Some nobles, unsatisfied with their lot, craved more—always more. They schemed to reconquer Columbia from within, to turn it into a shadow of Victoria's old system."
"They burrowed into its corporations, controlled its power grids, and its Originium trade, all under the guise of 'advancing the nation'."
She sighed, a weary exhale that seemed to carry the weight of decades.
"Now, they hold a sizable grip—too much. They thought they could bend this land to their will, but they forgot: every action has its echo. Hamelin… he's that echo, isn't he?"
Kristen remained silent, her shadowed eyes fixed on Elara, her expression unreadable. Elara smiled faintly, a sad, knowing curve of her lips.
"What will you do now, Lady Wright? With us gone, with the rot exposed—what path will you walk?"
Kristen's silence stretched, her jaw tight, her thoughts a storm behind her shadowed gaze. Elara stood, leaning on her cane, her voice softening further.
"I'm surprised, you know—that you, of all people, would choose to bear this burden. To stand at the precipice of such a choice, to carry the weight of our end."
Kristen's gaze flickered, her voice low, probing.
"Why are you so accepting of this fate?"
Elara chuckled softly, a sound both resigned and reflective.
"It's simply how the world works, my dear."
"From when I was young, my nature was moulded to be this way—ambition, survival, always looking ahead, never questioning the cost."
"It's why Victoria fell in the first place—that poisonous nature most nobles are bred to have."
She turned her gaze to the chamber, her voice trailing.
"Greed, power, betrayal… It's in our blood, a cycle we cannot break. We sow the seeds of our own ruin, and now we reap the harvest."
She turned fully, her steps slow as she moved back toward her bed, her voice a whisper.
"My time's near."
"I wish you a long life to depart without any regrets. Let our lives serve as a teaching tool."
Kristen rose, watching through the window as the doctors began transporting the nobles, their gurneys rolling toward the cryogenic pods, their forms soon to be sealed in frost.
She moved to another elevator, its doors sliding open with a hiss.
She stepped inside, the hum of the machinery filling the silence as it ascended.
Her mind churned with Elara's words, the weight of her own choices pressing against her chest.
Then, like a phantom materialising from the shadows, he appeared beside her—Hamelin. But this time, his appearance was not the usual crow-masked figure cloaked in black.
He stood in a tailored black suit, the fabric crisp against his frame, paired with matching pants and gloves that gleamed with a subtle sheen.
A white shirt lay beneath, stark against the dark ensemble, and a red scarf draped around his neck, its vibrant hue a striking contrast.
His hair, a mesmerising blend of black and white, flowed in soft waves, framing a face that was hauntingly beautiful, his features sharp yet ethereal, as if carved from moonlight and shadow.
***
"Greetings, Kristen," Hamelin said, his voice smooth, carrying a faint, melodic undertone that echoed in the small space.
Kristen's breath caught, her shadowed eyes widening as she turned to him, her mind racing with questions.
'How did he get in?'
But the shock faded quickly; she'd learnt by now that questioning Hamelin's presence was futile.
She steadied herself, her expression hardening, though her silence spoke volumes.
Hamelin tilted his head, his black-and-white hair catching the elevator's light, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"What are you thinking, I wonder?" he asked, his tone curious, probing.
Kristen didn't answer, her jaw tightening, her gaze fixed ahead as the elevator continued its ascent.
Hamelin placed a gloved hand over his chest, feigning hurt, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Oh, the silent treatment—how it wounds me, truly."
He straightened, his playful demeanour fading as he returned to his normal, composed stance, his red scarf swaying slightly.
"Ask what you wish to know," he said, his tone shifting to one of quiet authority.
"For now, I'm too tired to play games with you."
The elevator dinged, its doors sliding open, and Kristen stepped out, her boots echoing on the polished floor of Columbia's administrative core.
Hamelin moved beside her, his presence a shadow at her side, but as they walked through the bustling corridor—doctors and staff hurrying past—it became clear that only she could see him.
Her brow furrowed, her thoughts racing, and Hamelin, as if reading her mind, spoke with a faint chuckle.
"Only you can see me, Kristen—a mental projection, nothing more."
He leaned closer, his voice taking on a teasing lilt.
"Think of me as the devil on your left shoulder, whispering truths you'd rather ignore."
Kristen's steps slowed, her shadowed eyes narrowing as she processed his words. "You're in my mind, then," she said, her voice low, steady.
"Who are you, exactly?"
Hamelin's smirk returned, his beautiful features softening with a knowing glint.
"I am but a creation, one who achieved the goal I was given by 'Him'," he answered, his tone cryptic yet deliberate.
Kristen's mind flashed to the headless figure from her mind realm—the one with the cigar, the one who'd stripped her of her dreams and set her on this path.
Her grip tightened at her side, her voice sharp.
"The headless one."
Hamelin nodded, his red scarf catching the light as he moved.
"Indeed. And my new order is to assist you in the birth of a new Columbia."
Kristen's gaze hardened, her voice probing.
"How will you help?"
Hamelin's smirk widened, his tone smooth, assured. "I've already done most of the work."
He stepped closer, his presence looming as he continued.
"All that remains is for you to take the final steps—establish a new force, a new power that will swallow everything."
He appeared behind her in an instant, his voice a whisper at her ear, his black-and-white hair brushing against her shoulder.
"And you will end up with all of Columbia in your hands."
"I will serve as your right hand in shaping everything up."
Hamelin's tone grew fervent, his words a promise.
"I will help you become the ultimate progress. The president of Columbia."
Kristen let out a small, bitter chuckle, her shadowed eyes glinting with a mix of resolve and resignation.
She sank into a nearby chair, the weight of his words pressing against her.
"For the sake of what I want," she murmured, her voice low, "I have to give up Columbia."
She looked up at Hamelin, her expression devoid of hesitation, her decision made.
She was no longer a girl with a dream.
She was now a tool. She only hoped truly that she would at least achieve her dream along the way in the future.
She extended her hand, and Hamelin mirrored the gesture, his gloved hand meeting hers in a firm grip, sealing the deal with a silent pact.
[The Arknight [Intermezzi: Lone Trail] record has been erased.]
[ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ Interference acknowledged.]
[New record saved.]