You Came to Kill Me?
"...Young Master Iver?"
Oswald heard that familiar voice and suddenly jolted.
He spun around and saw Iver standing in the corner, where he had appeared at some point, slowly removing his hood.
Iver's eyes were neither the clear, transparent emerald green they usually were nor the warm, sunlike golden red that usually flickered within them. Instead, they steamed with an eerie purple haze.
—There was no doubt about it. That was Iver.
Even though he was not wearing the Temple-style church robes and was dressed only in loose, practical clothing meant for easy movement... Oswald, who had watched Iver grow up, naturally could not mistake him for anyone else.
He was stunned. "You... weren't you supposed to..."
The old butler, as fierce as a wild wolf, suddenly realized something and swallowed the rest of his sentence.
"Supposed to do what, Mr. Oswald?"
Iver chuckled softly. "Be in the Barracks, be by the seaside, be inside the Spirit Tower?"
His gaze passed over Oswald and settled on his adoptive father, James Moriarty.
"—Is that what you thought?"
Iver spoke each word distinctly.
Old James did not look to be in very good shape at the moment.
It was not because he was injured, ill, or sleep-deprived... Rather, his bearing had lost that light, mysterious quality.
He seemed to be in a bad mood. The corners of his mouth drooped slightly, and the faintly amused composure had vanished. His air had also become heavier and more solemn. It was as though a cynical cardsharp who never gave you a proper look had suddenly sat up and started playing cards with you.
If one had to describe it, it was like a gray spider, lurking like an illusion deep within a web, had turned into a glossy, black-brown