The forge behind the old clocktower had long since been abandoned—its chimney collapsed, roof half-burned, and rusted anvils scattered like forgotten tombstones.
But tonight, it roared again.
Azel crouched in the shadows, face lit by the flickering flames as Clad hammered away at glowing metal. Sparks hissed in the air. The sound was harsh and discordant.
They were forging false justice.
"Keep that steady. I'm crafting these bracers to match the Vincent prison issue. Get it wrong and they'll skewer us before we blink."
Azel tightened his grip on the cooling tongs. The metal cuff within pulsed with a faint enchantment rune—a counterfeit, carefully etched with a mixture of crushed bone ink and charred resin.
"They use Divine Chains on the upper floors. We're not faking those. But the standard lower-tier restraints? Easy. Just gotta make them believe."
"And the uniforms?"
Azel asked, eyes scanning the scattered gear in the corner.
"Acquired."
Earlier that day, two guards had vanished from a tavern near the southern wall—last seen drunk and boasting about working "13 shifts up." They'd never made it back to base.
Now, their armor hung cleaned and bloodless, laid out like ceremonial offerings.
Azel wasn't proud of how they got it. But he wasn't here to feel good.
He was here to win.
By dawn, the bracers were cooled, the forged insignias stamped, and the documents sealed with stolen wax. They were ready.
Almost.
"What's this?"
Azel asked, noticing a small leather pouch Clad tucked into his boot.
"Poison. Fast-acting on skin-contact. In case things go sideways."
Azel stared at him.
By late morning, they were already on the move, dressed in gray-black uniforms with iron trim and tall, mirrored visors that concealed most of their faces. Each carried a standard-issue halberd and a concealed dagger.
"Remember the protocol. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't look too sharp. Guards here are dead inside. We need to be dead inside too."
Clad whispered as they approached the outer gate. Azel nodded, his cursed heart beating calmly beneath the iron sigil of the Vincent State.
The outer checkpoint loomed.
A group of real guards stood in front of the barricade, scanning new arrivals. One of them yawned loudly, another adjusted his belt. The gate opened with a low, mechanical groan, exposing a path flanked by towering walls and angled ballista turrets.
Clad stepped forward first.
Their forged IDs were passed across.
The senior gatekeeper glanced at the documents, then at their faces. He squinted for a second too long at Azel.
Inside, Azel tensed.
His hand itched to his dagger.
"New transfers, huh?"
The gatekeeper finally said, voice hoarse.
"Yes, sir."
Clad answered.
"You two look too fresh."
"We're ex-crusaders from Roselle. Volunteered for upper floor duty."
"Volunteered? You're either mad or suicidal."
He stamped the parchment and waved them through.
"Head straight to Warden Carus. Thirteenth floor briefing. You're lucky. He's not in one of his moods."
The gate slid closed behind them with a final, grinding thud.
They were in.
The fortress swallowed them whole.
Inside Nouvelle, everything was silent and sterile—clean halls, stone-gray walls laced with gold sigils, and runes that dimly pulsed like heartbeat veins. The deeper they went, the colder it became.
Elevator cages powered by divine gears pulled them floor by floor. Azel counted each clang of the pulley. Floor 5. Then 6. Then 7.
The air grew thicker, heavier. His curse mark began to itch. This place was lined with anti-magic seals—but not enough to nullify what lived in him.
When they reached Floor 12, Clad leaned in slightly.
"From here on, everyone's a killer."
The final floor emerged from a narrow stairwell, guarded by twin knights in burnished gold. They scanned the two new arrivals.
"Names?"
"Reese and Dallen."
Clad answered smoothly, using the stolen IDs.
The knight on the right nodded.
"You're late."
"Blame the drunks at checkpoint three."
"You'll find your lockers to the left. Warden Carus will brief you shortly. Keep your mouths shut unless you're asked to scream."
Azel followed Clad through the reinforced corridor, each step ringing off polished stone. They passed rooms filled with screaming. One chamber echoed with the clatter of chains being dragged across floors. In another, a prisoner wailed prayers into his own bloodied hands.
Cell after cell. All despair.
And at the very end of the hall, a heavy vault door stood ajar, guarded by a single man with fiery red hair and a long curved blade strapped to his back.
Tom Vincent.
He didn't look at them. Just kept carving something into the wall with the tip of his sword.
"Wolves. I smell wolves in uniform."
He said glancing at the two.
Azel's hand twitched—but Clad elbowed him gently, keeping the pace steady.
Then, the door opened.
And they stepped into Nouvelle Prison's thirteenth floor as guards.