Gabriel ran his finger through the hole in his black necktie and pulled. A sigh left his lips at that same second that his tie unraveled, becoming nothing more than a strip of cloth that dangled from his neck.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Miss Voltaire," he spat out with his sigh.

"It was still disrespectful," she responded. "The dead deserve more than your impatient comments."

"I know, I know, I just-" Another sigh left his lips as he sat down in an ornate chair of thick, pastel-colored cloth. "I don't think there's a point of having a funeral without the deceased's body. If anything, that's disrespectful."

Voltaire smiled at Gabriel. She was an elderly woman of coffee-colored skin with fine dark eyes and even darker hair. She looked older than Archibald, and stood at a foot shorter than both him and Gabriel. And yet, her hair was only sprinkled with thin grey hairs, much unlike Archibald's silver hair of blond turned grey.

She had witnessed Gabriel Archibald grow and change as a person, over the past, over all sixteen years of the prodigy's life. Voltaire always knew this boy was destined for greatness. She and Charles had always invested everything they could into his development as a magician and a person.

But there was still a lot to work on, it seemed. After all, his only problem was his lousy personality, which stood in complete contrast with his almost perfect appearance.

His skin was clear and pale, just as he had mid-length hair of burnished gold that flowed with almost every step, and a pair of pale blue eyes that glistened like crystal waters.

To practically anyone who didn't really know him, Gabriel looked like a painting. To anyone who did know him... Well, that perfect image of his appearance was destroyed with more than half of the sentences he spoke. He was the disillusion of his own image.

"I suppose that's simply where we disagree, Gabriel," she responded.

And her thin smile remained on her lips. "Could you make me some tea, please?" Voltaire asked.

Gabriel's head drooped over. He wanted to groan, but that would only lead to Voltaire making a comment about it. He pressed his hands against his knees and forced himself onto his feet.

They were in Voltaire's apartment. 'So why do I have to make tea?' he asked himself. 'And what's with everyone liking tea nowadays?'

He walked over to the kitchen, opening the white cabinet doors that covered the walls and searching for the tea. He pulled out a box of bags in the corner and sat it down onto the countertop.

The tea kettle already sat on the stove, made of silver steel and filled with dried leaves as Gabriel poured a brown bag into it.

Gabriel placed his hand over the open pot and took in a sharp breath. Water burst forth and cascaded down from his palm, flowing into the pot. And without so much as a word, he turned on the stove.

"Did you just use your magic to produce that water?" Voltaire asked, her eyebrows furrowed and her face strained in a confused distaste.

"What?" Gabriel asked. "It's gonna boil, anyway."

She sighed. "Fair enough," she spat out.

Gabriel turned and pressed his back against the granite counter. "So, yeah," he said, continuing conversation. "Where even is Uncle Charles, anyway? I thought he was supposed to be done for the day after the funeral."

"Well... He's currently getting shouted at by a counselor of the Association. Or maybe even a bureaucrat. It's been happening since your return from Vanaheim."

"And why's that?" Gabriel asked, pulling out a porcelain container.

"It's only a matter of circumstance. A Paladin was killed under another Paladin's orders. Charles Archibald is the only person that can receive blame, so he's the only person they pushed it onto. He'll be fine, regardless. I don't think they'll strip him of his titles or anything."

"God, I hate those guys," he muttered. "Always interfering in everything. Are they the reason we haven't been on any missions since Vanaheim?"

Voltaire remained seated, yet still spoke to Gabriel. She pushed up her glasses as they waited. "What do you mean?"

"Well... None of us- The Virtues, I mean- None of us have gone on a single mission in these two weeks. Not as a team, not even individually."

Her ears perked up. "Oh. That's not them, that's just Charles."

Gabriel furrowed his eyebrows. He walked out and stared at her. "What do you mean?"

The kettle began whistling. And the high-pitched shrill pierced Gabriel's ears.

He ran back and picked it up by the wooden handle, quickly pouring it into the porcelain cups that sat at the side.

He carried the two filled cups to Voltaire and rested one of them onto the table that stood at her side.

"So what were you saying?" he asked her, sitting down with his tea.

"Your uncle is simply worried about you, Gabriel," Voltaire said with a smile, blowing on her steaming tea. "Moreso now than ever, of course."

Gabriel furrowed his eyebrows as drank from, his cup, ignoring the burning heat. "Why more now? He's not the type of worry about the new demon coming up."

"And for good reason," she chuckled. "You'll be able to handle Mammon together. With coordination and experience and all." She took a sip of the tea.

"Mm, needs more sugar," she noted.

Gabriel stood up and headed back to the kitchen. He quickly returned and passed her the porcelain container of sugar cubes, before he sat back down across from her. "Miss Voltaire, I don't think this be good for your blood sugar."

"But you still gave it to me, didn't you?"

Gabriel paused. "Well, it's better to be happy for a short time, than sad for a long time."

She gripped a sugar cube with her bare fingers and gently dropped it into the cup. "I don't see how that applies to tea, however."

He clenched his jaw in awkward silence. "It's... a matter of perspective, I guess."

With a stir of her spoon, the sugar began to dissolve into the steaming drink. Voltaire paused as she stirred. "So what was I saying?"

Gabriel took another sip as he turned to the side, towards the grand trio of arched windows in her living room. The sky was pale and empty, blank and cloudless.

"Uncle Charles is worried about something," he said, unattentive to everything else. Gabriel had always found a cloudless sky to be one of the grandest and purest sights of the natural world. An endless, serene, blue beauty. An empty path towards all that lies in the heavens.

That, and it was simply his favorite color.

"Ah." Voltaire set down the teacup on the stand beside her chair and turned to her windows, turning to the same sight that Gabriel beheld. "That's because of the Prophecy, of course."

Gabriel's ears perked up. "The Prophecy?" he asked, turning to her.

"Oh..." Voltaire muttered out, finally realizing her mistake. That was her fatal flaw, after all. Not knowing when to speak and not knowing when to silence herself.

Gabriel stared at her with his azure eyes. "What prophecy?" he asked.

"What do you mean, 'what prophecy'?" she asked. "What are you talking about, Gabriel?" she said, nervously avoiding eye contact and fixating herself back on her tea.

The boy gripped the arms of the chair. "Miss Voltaire."

She locked eyes with him. Voltaire clenched her jaw and slowly shook her head. "I mustn't say."

"But you already did."

Voltaire held in a breath. "Gabriel. I cannot-"

"Tell me," he interrupted. "Please."

She clenched her jaw. "There's a prophecy... that we think concerns you, or the other Virtues. But I'm afraid I can't tell you any more."

"Miss Voltaire... I mean this with the utmost respect, but... Bullshit. You know more. And as the leader of the Virtues, I have to know. Please."

A sigh left her lips.

And it wasn't more than a handful of minutes before Charles Archibald walked through the wooden door.

He still carried his cane, built of polished wood and made beautiful with the scarlet gem that sat atop of it, held together by a band of gold. But unlike his usual attire, the Paladin wore a simple black suit. Nothing complicated or personal, simply professional and bland. And purely out of respect for the funeral.

Still, he spat out a sigh as he removed his black jacket. "Xerxes' entire job is dealing with councilors and politicians and all those types of people," he muttered. "And I have no idea how he has the patience to deal with them. I honestly would've killed myself if that was my job."

"Quitting is an option, too, Charles," Voltaire told him.

"Yeah, but that's-" He paused as he stared at Gabriel. Gabriel's eyes were focused on him, practically glowing with his stark glare.

"...What?" he asked.

Voltaire swallowed her dry saliva. "Charles, I'm sorry. I had to answer his questions."

His gaze turned to her. "...Dude, really?"

"I'm sorry."

Archibald let out a groan. "Olivia, you did this with Alexander's curse. And now the prophecy?!"

"I didn't say everything. I just... I slipped up. It happens to everyone."

"It happens to you every week! I swear to God, I can't even tell you things anymore. If you get kidnapped or something, you'll spill everything!"

Gabriel interrupted and shouted, "Uncle Charles! Tell me what the prophecy is. I deserve to know."

"No, Gabriel. You deserve not to know. Not yet, at least. That prophecy is nothing but a burden for you all."

"The Virtues are-" Gabriel caught himself. As much as he wanted to repeat that he was their leader, that wouldn't help anything. That wouldn't even help him believe it. "The Virtues are my friends. And this prophecy... is something that sounds bad. Dangerous, at that. Uncle Charles... Just tell me."

The Paladin turned to Voltaire.

He nodded at her and spoke. "Olivia."

She nodded and stood up from her seat.

Voltaire walked over to a desk riddled with papers and books. She ruffled through and flipped over pills and dense layers of papers, before finally finding a single sheet.

That was surprisingly mundane, Gabriel thought, as she began to walk over.

"You just have that lying around?" Archibald asked as she handed him the paper.

"Yes." She sat back down. "What's wrong with that?"

"It's a prophecy. Every single word carries the power and presence of magic. The entire purpose of such a-"

Voltaire looked up at him and stared with her stale, ebony eyes. "I'm a prophet. I know more than you do, Charles."

The Paladin sucked in a breath, only to let it out as a sigh. "Alright. Alright, alright, alright," he spat out as he walked over and sat himself down across from Gabriel.

He carried the paper, grasping it with both hands and gingerly holding it until he placed it onto the table. Archibald left it flipped over, showing only its blank side, before he slid it across the wooden surface towards his nephew.

Archibald's emerald eyes locked with Gabriel's. He clenched his jaw and gave him a slight nod.

Gabriel swallowed his dry saliva and reached over for the sheet.

With the paper finally in his grasp, he flipped it to read it, still holding it with both hands just as his uncle did.

He silently read to himself. And within seconds, his face twisted to gloom and distress, his azure eyes fixating themselves onto the floor. Within seconds, he flipped the paper over and placed it against the table.

He pressed his palm against the paper. Gabriel swallowed his dry saliva before he spoke. "Uncle Charles..."

"I'm sorry."

"Do you... Do you know who it is yet?"

"No." Archibald's hand remained firm and placed against the crimson gemstone that sat on his cane's pommel. "Nothing is certain yet. As unfortunate as it is, it may be you. At the same time, it could be Alexander, it could be-"

Gabriel let out an exasperated exhale. "It's worse if it's him," he said. "Or any of them."

Archibald's head swayed with his slight nodding. "But it's fine," he proclaimed. "There are plenty of different translations, so each has its own differing meaning. It may not even apply to this generation!"

Gabriel's brows furrowed, just as his icy eyes raised and glared at his uncle. "Are you saying this prophecy was received by multiple people? Across the world?"

Charles Archibald fell silent.

"Do you remember what you told me about those types of prophecies?" Gabriel asked. "Because I do. They're precise, and they always happen soon. That's why they're revealed to more than a single person. They're urgent and have to be understood as quickly as possible. That's what you told me, Uncle Charles! And now-"

"Can't you see this is why I didn't want you to know?! This is dangerous information, Gabriel. But you have to trust me. This will-"

Gabriel quickly interrupted, speaking through his grit teeth. "I do trust you."

His palm remained atop the sheet of paper. "But-" he said. "No one. None of the Virtues will learn about this. Promise me of that, at least."

"I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" Gabriel asked him, his jaw still clenched.

"You said it yourself. You deserve to know. And in the same way, they deserve to, as well. I was planning on telling each of you, individually, after the battle against Mammon. That way, I would at least have more time to gain certainty."

"They don't have to know!" the Virtue shouted in his anger. "You just said it, this may not even apply to them!"

Archibald stood up. "I have to tell them for the exact reason why you don't want me to. Because... Because deep down, we both know it applies to one of them. I still don't know if it's you the prophecy speaks of, just as you don't know. But we... I'm gonna figure it out. I won't let any of you Virtues die. I can swear that."

Gabriel took in a sharp breath. He ran his fingers through his curly blond hair and raised his head. "Fine. But... Don't tell me them individually. Tell them together."

The Paladin swallowed his dry saliva and nodded. "Alright."

It was finally then that clouds took hold of the sky. Grey, dark and light, began to fill up the blue void that stood outside. Gabriel turned to the side.

'The Hero's choice will mark his End.'

That single line echoed in his head. 'His End. Someone's... Someone's gonna die, aren't they?'

Gabriel grabbed the paper and flipped it over once again.

He took in a deep breath and read the prophecy to himself for the second time. His jaw remained clenched, his brows remained furrowed as his eyes scanned over it, reaching every single word.

It spoke to him:

The World's twilight, he shall view,

The human born of vice and virtue.

He shall bear the Fate within his palms.

And as the Shroud of Shadows calms,

The Hero's soul fighting to defend,

The Hero's choice will mark his End.

Chills buried themselves into his neck and down his spine. He looked up at his uncle, but before he could speak again, before a single sound left his lips...

Archibald's phone rang.

With a quick swipe, he pulled it from his pocket and raised it to his eyes. "It's Xerxes. I should take this," Archibald said, standing up and bringing his cane with him as he headed for the door.

He shut the apartment door behind him and faced out at the pale wall of wood before him. "It's Charles. Talk to me," he spoke into his phone.

"It's the Grand Order," the chairman said.

Archibald furrowed his eyebrows. "That was a whole week ago. What's going on, now?"

"It took me a week to figure it out, Charles. And that's considering my gargantuan level of intelligence," he said, letting out a puff of smoke from his lips. "There's something going on on Asgard."

Xerxes Agnes raised his lit cigarette back to his mouth. "It was nearly a year ago, wasn't it?" he asked, staring out of the open balcony of his office in the Centro Centum. The dark clouds had already begun settling in, beginning to rumble with echoes of rain and soft thunder. "Nearly a year ago, when you were attacked by that white-haired man?"

The Paladin nodded. "Yeah. What about him?"

"I'm still not sure about the connection. But..." Another puff of smoke left his lips. "What does the name Arnold Norr mean to you?"

"Never heard of him. Not him specifically, at least," he muttered, turning to the side. He clenched his jaw. "But the way Asgardian names are structured... Is he with the house of Arn?"

"Yep. The rest is a long story," Xerxes told him. "How much time do you have?"

Archibald rubbed his forehead and let out a tired breath. 'This is all because I didn't go to the damn meeting,' he thought.

"I have... enough time. Tell me everything."