24 a bridge to our future.

King Xavier's body lay on a table, covered by many thick blankets.

The wounds the king had sustained were grievous, and it seemed like the staff had done as much as they could to tidy up his body—but there was no hiding the black stains penetrating the blankets. The stench of blood and rot was intense, rebuffing Damian as he approached.

In time, the king would be buried properly, with a state funeral attended by thousands of his loyal subjects. Right then, though, his body had been placed in a disused room; with his soul and life gone, his body was nothing but bloody flesh.

Damian knew he didn't have much time before he needed to leave the Palace, but he could not—would not—leave without seeing his father one last time. The room where Xavier had been temporarily interred was a small sitting room on the first floor, now secured by a pair of Flameguard. 

He didn't ask how they'd retrieved his father's body, but there was no longer any trace of the Deep's shadows. Perhaps Leon had assisted. 

Damian reached out with trembling fingers, his hand hovering over the blanket. He wanted to see his father's face one last time, but he couldn't bear to see that look of horror a second time. His breath shook and he lowered his hand.

"Your father was a great man."

The voice was quiet but firm. 

Damian turned. The staff had given him time alone in the room, but Gunther had now entered, his head bowed in apology. The butler's eyes were puffy and red, but for the prince's sake, he kept his expression level.

"…"

Damian said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Grief and anger and shock swirled in his stomach, each competing for control of his emotions, yet none truly commanded him. Instead, he was filled with a desperate agitation that bubbled through his veins, a need to keep moving.

"I'm going to find them. I will find who did this, and I'll kill them."

Gunther approached, his footsteps ringing loudly in the otherwise-empty room.

"It appears the media have already caught wind of your father's passing. …Know that you are not the only one who grieves, young master. The city's people will undoubtedly grieve with you, too."

"Then I seek vengeance for both the king and Sidralis."

"You need not take this burden upon yourself, young master. You will always have allies and friends to help you."

"Until I know who did this, nobody is my ally." 

Gunther bowed his head in that amicable, deferent way.

"You may not wish to take the crown yet, but you should take your father's signet. I took the liberty of retrieving it for you."

Damian looked back at the covered body. He swallowed past a thick lump in his throat. The body beneath those robes would be bloodied and warped—he was quietly grateful that he didn't need to look upon his father's corpse. He wasn't sure his heart could take it.

Gunther proffered a small box from his pocket, in which sat the Rosa Regalia. The gemstone was the hereditary heirloom of the Roswald lineage, supposedly containing a Cinder cast off from the Angel Themselves. The ruby shone with the tiny flicker of Flame trapped within its crystalline structure.

Slowly, reverently, Damian slid the ring onto his finger.

"It's heavy," he murmured. The square-cut jewel sat awkwardly upon on his finger. It looked wrong.

"I feel like… I was not meant to wear this ring."

Gunther gently placed a hand on Damian's shoulder. 

"All sons inherit their fathers. The hand of fate has simply demanded that you shoulder your father's burdens sooner rather than later."

Damian couldn't do more than swallow and nod. He curled his hand into a tight fist, the signet ring digging into the soft flesh of his palm. He looked once more at the blankets covering his father's body.

"As ashes to the wind," Damian murmured, completing the prayer of the Angel.

Then he turned and left the drawing room; and if he seemed to stand taller, if his shadow seemed longer, only Gunther could tell.

\*\*\*

It was after the one o'clock bells when Damian left Rossheim Palace.

Three automobiles departed the residence at the same time, each headed in a different direction. Leon had co-ordinated Damian's evacuation, intending to throw off any pursuers, including the media who had begun to crowd around the locked gates.

As the car peeled away from the skyscraper and headed westwards, Damian caught sight of the growing crowd. On the streets, passersby stopped and talked to one another as the news spread like wildfire, leaping from person to person. Through the windows, and above the gentle hum of the Cinder-powered engine, Damian heard the cries—"The king is dead, long live the king!"

He stared down at his hand, at the signet ring that fit his hand so poorly.

I am no king. Not until I avenge my father.

Damian repeated those words like a mantra, narrowing his vision until he saw only the first few steps ahead of him. Anything more than that felt like stumbling blindly in the dark.

A small hand covered his, and he looked up, blinking in surprise.

Tia gave him a small, uncertain smile. 

Her hair was ruffled and her makeup hastily applied. None of the car's occupants had been given time to gather their effects—time was of the essence. Every minute they spent at the Palace was another minute King Xavier's killer could make their next move, and Damian was unquestionably in danger.

Damian caught Lynn's gaze in the rearview mirror, an unasked question in her eyes. 

It made sense—Lynn barely knew Tia, but she could evidently infer their relationship from that single gesture. In truth, Damian barely knew Tia either, but his heart was telling him that he needed her near him.

I can't do this alone. I know that. But I also don't know who I can trust.

Damian closed his eyes, but whenever he did so, he saw his father's body—not laying on the table, but impaled on the glass windows of the Palace. He snapped his eyes open and looked forward. Forward. Forward, always forward. That was the only direction he could go now.

The car crossed onto a bridge over the River Rose. A hundred yards away, a tram had stopped in the middle of the bridge to let passengers off.

"Captain…" 

Dominic suddenly leaned forward in his seat. 

Damian's brows furrowed. He felt something coming, racing towards them—

"—EVERYONE DOWN!" 

It all happened in an instant.

Dominic lurched towards the back seat, using his impressive bulk to shield Damian.

Lynn locked the car up and the back wheels skidded across the bridge, sliding sideways.

The windshield shattered as three spears of pure darkness plunged into the car.

Something wet splashed across Damian's face, and then the ground become the sky as the car flipped. Tia screamed, clutching tightly onto Damian. The car slammed onto its roof and skidded with a horrific, metallic screech. 

The vehicle flipped once more, landing back upright, but the impact threw Damian sideways, and he tumbled through the crumpled door and out onto the bridge.

Damian rolled twice, the rough asphalt tearing his jacket open, slicing into his arms. Years of training with Dominic activated on pure muscle memory, and he snapped his fingers out.

"Aspect of Vigor Unknown, Shield of the Angel, Canopy!"

The Angel's Blessing erupted from his back, ripping through his jacket to blossom into a dome that covered his prone body. Not a moment later, Deepshadow slammed into the shield, burning away with the Flame's protection. 

Daggers of the Deep slammed into the ground, each four inches long and ferociously barbed.

"—mian! Damian!!"

A shrill cry caught his attention and he looked up, trying to make sense of what had happened.

The tram!

The passengers standing outside the tram were not regular commuters, but instead Apostles of the Deep. The faceless, masked assailants had their hands raised, channeling the foul blessings of their corrupted Angel. 

The car was a wreck, the front caved in and the roof a crumpled mess. The back tires had been blown out by Deepshadow, and Lynn was dragging something from the car; no, not something—

—someone.

"Dom…?"

Damian stumbled upright, his shield scattering into motes of fire. He lurched forward, only now realizing what the liquid splattered across his face and chest was.

Blood.

No no no no no no—

"DOMINIC!"

The car was only a dozen paces away now. 

Lynn eased Dominic's body to the ground—but there was nothing left of the man except his enormous frame. His skull had been rent in two, split apart by a Deepshadow spear. The barbed remains of his spinal cord extended from the ruins of his neck, and crimson spurted freely from the severed arteries.

Dominic was dead.