Nicholas Vials: The Case Of Michael Vials

Nicholas hoisted himself through the window, his breath hitching as his ankle twisted sharply beneath him. He bit back a groan, the pain shooting up his leg like fire. His hands, raw and splintered from grappling with the jagged boards of the castle shrubs, stung with every movement. The bruises on his face had faded into dull, yellowed patches over the past two weeks, but his body still carried the weight of his escape—each ache reminded him of the wild dogs snapping at his heels, still grateful he’d narrowly outrun them.

He moved carefully now, crouching low as he scanned the room. It was vast but eerily still, the kind of silence that pressed on his ears and made his breath seem too loud. The air was cold, biting against his skin as he stepped deeper inside. The walls were bare, the wood beneath exposed and warped, as though time had stripped this place of its former grandeur. Even in the dim light, he could make out the once-ornate details clinging to what had once been a grand Victorian dining hall.

Nicholas froze when the room suddenly blazed with light, the harsh glow striking the walls in an instant. He instinctively lowered his head, as if to hide. But then he realized the futility of it. He had been seen. His crouch felt ridiculous now, so he straightened, his face set in a mask of forced calm.

“Nicholas Vials,” a voice drawled from the far corner of the room. It was smooth and clipped. Just as Nicholas had imagined, a soft yet grim voice echoed and he knew who it was. “How did you make it up here?”

“The window was open,” Nicholas replied evenly, though the words sounded hollow, almost absurd, even to himself. His heart thudded as he heard the unmistakable click of guns behind him, the sound slicing through the tense air. It was never this easy to make it into the Baracks’ den. If it was, Nicholas wouldn’t have been the first.

“Glad you made use of it,” Baracks said. He stepped forward, his face still cloaked in shadow, but his tone carried an unmistakable edge. Nicholas didn’t move, his mind racing even as his body remained still.

“Do sit down,” said Baracks as he pointed at the chair before Nicholas. A large banquet table had been set before them, alternating bowls of fruit lying across the table as if a guest was expected to arrive any moment.

A gun ushered Nicholas into the seat. He made it clear he was not going to rebel, even if he could.

Across the table, Baracks pulled the chair out, the scrape of wood against stone echoing in the great hall. Shadows cloaked his face, leaving only a glint of his eyes visible—a gleam that hinted at malice beneath his calm.

“I was expecting you,” Baracks said, his voice smooth, almost too welcoming.

Nicholas’s expression did not waver. “Why?”

Baracks leaned back, folding his hands as though this were a polite meeting and not the power play it truly was. “Straight to the point. I do admire that in a man. Though I use the term loosely.” His lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I assume you’re here to return the emblem. It was inevitable, after all. You must’ve known the chaos that theft would unleash.”

“I want no part of this,” Nicholas replied, withdrawing the emblem from his coat. He placed it on the table, sliding it forward with a cold finality. “Take it.”

Baracks did not move to touch it. Instead, he regarded Nicholas with the air of a chess master observing a particularly foolish move. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, his voice sharpening. “Why?”

Baracks smiled, a predatory edge curling his lips. “Nicholas Vials,” he said, drawing the name out as though tasting it. “We meet. A pleasure long overdue. I hope you can tell how excited I am to finally put you in your place.” He said as he gestured to the man with the gun, dismissing him with a flick of his fingers.

“I’m not here for pleasantries,” Nicholas said, his tone clipped. He pushed the emblem closer.

“You’re quite the character, Nicholas,” Baracks said, ignoring the gesture entirely. “A thief without a cause. A boy who believes there are no consequences for his actions. But I assure you, there are.”

Nicholas stiffened. “You’ve chased me out of my home, sent the police after me, ransacked my room—only to tell me now you don’t want this emblem? What do you want, Baracks?”

Baracks slid the emblem back toward Nicholas with a slow, deliberate motion. “You misunderstand. It was never about the emblem. Keep it, if you like. My people can craft another key. No, Nicholas, this is about you. You walked into my home with such arrogance, stole from me as if daring me to notice, and then had the gall to try pawning it. That audacity cannot go unacknowledged.”

Nicholas’s face hardened as he processed the words.

“You’re not my enemy,” Baracks continued. “You’re a nuisance—a reckless fool with no sense of the danger you court. I should be furious, but truthfully? I find you amusing.”

“Amusing?” Nicholas hissed. “You call this amusing? You’ve upended my life for a trinket you didn’t even want?”

Baracks’s smirk deepened. “You think this was about the emblem? Oh no, Nicholas. That was merely the prelude. My interest lies elsewhere. I could take advantage of your stupidity right now and strip you of skin and bone, just as Michael Vials— Ah, surprised are you? Does the name strike a chord?”

Nicholas froze, his brother’s name slicing through his thoughts like a blade. “What do you know about him?”

Baracks’s voice dropped to a near whisper, rich with malice. “I know who killed him. He was as troublesome as you are now—more so, even. But, like you, he was entertaining in his way. I should confess I was not surprised when he died, but it hurts still, doesn't it?”

Nicholas shot to his feet, his composure cracking. “you have names, I have your key—”

“Oh, Nicholas,” Baracks drawled, leaning forward with predatory delight. “Where’s the fun in simply giving you answers? Keep the key for all it is worth, after all, it does belong to your father, but to surrender it for such a simple answer? It's a shame you, of all people, would say such a thing. Mysteries are so much more… engaging when unravelled on one’s own.”

Nicholas’s hands clenched his jaw. “You think this is a game?”

“I think life is a game,” Baracks said, his tone light, though his eyes burned with sinister intent. “And you, my dear boy, are just another piece on the board.”

Nicholas stared at him, confusion warring with disgust.

Baracks smiled wider, his voice dropping to a venomous purr. “I have been watching, waiting, but to be fair, you’ve played a marvellous hand. The day I heard you became an accomplice to Henry, how utterly excited I was. And you did not disappoint. You made a name for yourself in these streets, made all the right enemies, and took on all the wrong pursuits. You did things without motive, and that is what excites me. Your brother was as stupid as you are—quite dynamic, unrelenting in his pursuits. It pleases me to know that you are as clueless as he was. And I say this as someone who overlooked his murder. I am no palm reader, mystic, or psychic, but you share the same fate. You will take all those who surround you, and you shall die knowing you failed them miserably. You can look as stoic as you want for now, but I must say, panic suits you, Nicholas. It’s thrilling.”

Nicholas’s laugh was bitter. “You’re a thug, Baracks. You have callously ruled this city, and yet you failed to connect all the dots.”

“And you’re a fool,” Baracks replied smoothly. “But perhaps that’s what makes this so… enjoyable.”

Nicholas’s chuckle faded, leaving behind a sharp silence. He tilted his head, the flickering candlelight catching the edge of a sardonic smile that hadn’t been there before. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him.

“You can only see the dots that you would like to connect, make sense of arguments that suit your narrative, Baracks,” Nicholas said, his voice low but cutting, the tone of a man who had been waiting for this moment.

Baracks’s smirk faltered just for an instant, but it was enough for Nicholas to see it.

“You’re so used to playing the puppeteer, you fail to see the bigger picture, the greater motif, plainly put, you can only know as much as your puny mind can make sense of,” Nicholas continued, his gaze drilling into Baracks, “pulling strings, setting traps all the time, never stopping to ask yourself the most important questions—why would I come here? To return the emblem was certainly a reason, but I do not make plans to go. It spoils my mood.”

Baracks leaned forward, his smirk returning, though now tinged with unease. “Enlighten me, Nicholas. I do enjoy a good story.”

Nicholas’s smile widened, though it never reached his eyes. He reached into his coat and retrieved a small, nondescript object—a simple key, weathered and unassuming. He placed it on the table beside the emblem with a deliberate motion.

“You think the emblem was your prize? Your most valuable asset? You don’t understand what I took from you that night.”

Baracks’s eyes flicked to the key, his calm exterior wavering. “And what is that supposed to be?”

Nicholas chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. “This, Baracks, is the master key to everything you’ve built. Every vault. Every ledger. Every dirty little secret, you've so meticulously hidden. I didn’t just steal your emblem—I unravelled your empire. While you were busy stringing threads, chasing me here and there, I was remarkably at ease with what you overlooked. I don't blame you, of course, there is only so much you can take control of,”

Baracks’s expression darkened, his fingers curling against the table. “You, of all people, would never do that.”

“You think that because my father owes you his loyalty, there should be an unspoken pact between us? And you thought I was a fool.” Nicholas leaned forward now, the shift in his posture reminiscent of a hawk swooping for a meal. “Do you think I would distribute them to people who would love to see your little kingdom burn? No one would want to remove you from this city more than I do. Go ahead, call my bluff. But I wonder—can you afford to take that chance?”

“And Michael?” Nicholas continued, his voice colder now. “You think I do not know how little you have a say in the matter? Do you think I am led to believe you could kill my brother? I am hasty, I’m aware. There is no one who I have not suspected. But you—never could. You certainly know who killed my brother, but there is no doubt you could never. Your loyalty to my father is only as much as it is as of now, to run his errands and do the dirty work he deems himself too good to do. That is all. And did you think that I’ve spent all this time running without a purpose? No, Baracks. Every move I made was deliberate, every step bringing me here. To you. The emblem, the police, the pawnshop—you believe yourself to be in control, but— and you were right— you are no psychic.”

Baracks gave a smirk coupled with a frown.

“You’re mistaken if you think I could not break away from your father. Quite frankly, he needs me more than I need him. Even at the expense of his heir, he has to tolerate me,” he said quite jovially.

“You couldn’t have killed Michael.”

“Nicholas Vials,” Baracks said, quite enjoying the conversation they had been having. “Why do you think your father sent you to the same place, same institute, as your brother, knowing that there was perhaps something you wouldn’t want to discover? Have you ever stopped to think that?”

Nicholas had never thought that. And Baracks knew he had uncovered a weakness he could take advantage of.

Baracks’s hand twitched toward the key, but Nicholas slammed his palm on the table, the sharp sound reverberating through the room.

“Don’t,” Nicholas warned, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. “That key is the least of your problems. By now, everything you have to your name is gone. Your allies are questioning your strength. Your rivals are smelling blood. And me? I’m just here to watch it all burn.”

Baracks’s eyes narrowed, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. “You think you’re untouchable, boy?”

Nicholas smiled, cold and razor-sharp. “Not untouchable. But I am sure to believe it if you play these silly games. You’ve already lost, Baracks. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of Nicholas’s words pressing down on Baracks like a vice.

“That money, all of it, belongs to your father. There is nothing to my name. You’re axing your side.”

“The money will all go to the Curidians.”

“Your father is trying to rid himself of the Curidians. The sailors on the docks must live on some money if they plan on leaving their posts” Nicholas said as he leaned back into the chair.

“Well then, it is his loss to be playing against me.”

"He is doing it all for an empire that you should inherit–"

"The works of my father conflict with my own, and it should remain that way till he surrenders his empire to me. Then there will be no use for you" Nicholas said as he leaned over the table, his eyes half-lidded, his brows twitching in frustration.

"There will always be use for me—"

"If the thought helps you sleep peacefully, then I should not intervene", said Nicholas as he retreated, his face returning to its former calm. The smirk on Baracks face however did not waver.

"You know, boy— there are three types of people in the world; one wants to better it, one wants to bring it down, and one wants to keep it running in whatever manner it runs" Barracks had a coarse tongue, his words thick with tension.

"I move with the world; I do not stop the stream in hopes of catching the fish because if I did, the fish would die and be buried beneath the rocks. You use your heart to rationalise and your mind clears its path. I use my mind and my heart to clear my path. You can not better it with what you are doing. You want to create heaven on a wasteland"

"The stream is poisoned and you've adapted. Your mind could never perceive heaven," said Nicholas, playing with the emblem as he traced the wooden pattern on the table with his other hand.

“You’re a clever boy,” Baracks said finally, his voice strained. “But cleverness only gets you so far. You don’t understand the forces you’re playing with.”

Nicholas stood, the motion fluid and commanding. He reached down, picked up the emblem, and pocketed it without breaking eye contact.

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” he said, his tone final. “And I’m not playing, Baracks. I’m winning.”

With that, Nicholas turned and strode toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the tense silence. At the threshold, he paused and looked back, his expression unreadable.

“By the way,” he added, his voice casual but laced with malice. “You might want to check on your vaults. I doubt there’s much left to salvage.”

And then he was gone, leaving Baracks in the hall, left glaring at the silhouette of the boy. A sly smile made it onto his face. He folded his hands, his hollow cheeks shadowed, reminiscent of the devil, scheming.

He had planned to rid himself of Nicholas. But now he sincerely hoped Nicholas escaped his attack.