Argyle watched the Fog atop the battlement, leaning against the top of the crenel as he looked down upon the Lower Tier. The Fog shrouded the dilapidated houses with an angelic glow in the moonlight. It looked oddly peaceful, despite everything: He knew of the horrors he'd inflicted upon those unfortunate enough to live in the slums—He knew exactly what it was like down there: He had studied the reports, he had even attended the Scholars de-briefing sessions; There was not a single man in this mortal world who understood the Fog—and its consequences—better than he did...

Yet, despite his best efforts, the experiments conducted upon the Subject hadn't bore any fruit.

He flicked his journal open and scanned his notes—sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth as he rolled his pencil around his fingers. The last experiment on the Subject had been a total failure—again. Was there something he had missed? Something he had overlooked? Was he doing something wrong? Had he made a mistake?

"No..." Argyle smirked... "I don't make mistakes."

Perhaps a change of scenery was what he needed: He had been locked in the Grand Chamber working on the Subject for far too long—days had melted into weeks, only to evaporate into months. He needed to get away from it all—all the demands, all the deadlines, all the expectations. His predicament wasn't one that would allow him to work at his optimal output. He needed time—to think, to theorize, to experiment...

Or maybe that was just an excuse to return here again—perhaps that's all there was to it: He needed to be reminded what he was fighting for.

"To my surprise, I find you up here, Mr. Trennan... I was going to meet you in your study, yet it appears you've escaped... again. Honestly, if I knew you wouldn't have come here, I'd probably have mistaken you for one of the guards!"

Argyle shoved his journal into the hidden compartment sewn in the lining of his waistcoat as he whirled around, facing Lord Deramore and his growling entourage—all holding what appeared to be some sort of flanged mace-like weapon at the ready.

"That'd be hard, my Lord; The guards have been spread thin of late, have they not? There isn't even anyone posted at this station anymore—you don't have the men to even man the walls anymore—"

Lord Deramore lunged and swiped his shoulder-cape aside as he gripped Argyle by the neck—thrusting him towards the edge of the battlement and the sixty-foot drop accompanying it.

"After all this time, after all these years... You still insist on refusing to call me your King?"

"No, my Lord. You're not my King, and you never will be: You murdered the only man in this world who deserved the title, and you stole it" said Argyle, clawing for breath—yet ensuring he had the ability to muster the words to defy his captor.

Lord Deramore grappled Argyle by the collar—tearing his blackened white dress shirt —and smashed his nose against the charcoal-colored stonework, splattering his blood across the narrow indentations amidst the intricate carvings. He turned him back over and held Argyle over the drop once more—this time much further away from the edge.

"It is mine—it's my birthright! It always has, and forever will be!" Lord Deramore spluttered and splattered his saliva across Argyle's broken and bloodied face—quite literally nearly frothing at the mouth as he applied more and more pressure onto his neck. "Your precious King stole it from me—From my family! I took back what was rightfully mine! You should do your best to remember that, and the situation you're in!"

"Is this little display meant to insinuate you're going to kill me, my Lord? Am I meant to believe you'd really drop me over this here wall?" Argyle coughed, letting out a pathetic wheeze as his eyes grew heavy and his words became slurred. "You'd not tolerate my insubordination if I weren't important enough to let live—You've killed people for far less; I've seen you do it yourself. If you're going to pretend to threaten my life, at least do it convincingly..."

Lord Deramore gripped Argyle's throat tighter—digging his fingernails deep into his flesh and drawing blood. If Argyle hadn't been well-versed with it for the past twenty years to know otherwise, he'd be sure that Lord Deramore would explode with resentment.

He let his grip loosen, and punched Argyle in the stomach—winding and knocking him to the ground.

"Take him back to his study in the Chamber. I want an extra guard posted to his quarters every night..." said Lord Deramore to one of his personal guards, leaning in closer towards his ear. "We can't afford to let him fall into the wrong hands: We're in a far too fragile state to let anyone know what we're doing—we can't let them know about what the Endel's left behind..."

Lord Deramore patted his guard on the shoulder as he nodded to the rest, instructing them to return Argyle to his quarters.

"One last thing before you go..." whispered Lord Deramore: "What of the scouts I sent to check up on our friend in the East?"

The guard tried to hide his frown.

"They've yet to return, my King; I fear they won't return at all."

Lord Deramore frowned for the pair of them

"Take this wretch; Give him extra whippings tonight. I've got a lot to consider for the days ahead, knowing he's suffering too will cheer me up a bit."

The guard nodded and dragged Argyle to his feet. With his last little bit of strength, he couldn't help but smirk: During his flowery speeches to the masses—when he exhibited and held every last crumb of control—he was King Deramore... Yet in Argyle's presence—despite the fundamental and clear lack of control he held—he was Lord Deramore, and he always would be. The grandest part about it all was that there was absolutely nothing that Deramore scum could do about it.

That was little hope to find solace in, of course—He knew once his work was completed, there'd be nothing to shield him from his wrath... Yet, it was at least something to hold onto for the time being—something to keep him going...

What sweet little it was, it was still something.