Late Night, Protectorium Palace in Teak-An

  Late in the evening, Ayzel found himself in his office, nearly buried under stacks of paperwork. The dim light of the desk lamp picked out the creased drafts of his report on Ao-Teien. He had rewritten the text countless times, trying to ensure that Morveyn did not appear a villain in the Council’s eyes. It was crucial to emphasize that there had been no time—that the decisive factor had been the desire to save hundreds of lives.

  But as he reread paragraph after paragraph, he noticed logical gaps—holes that, if someone wished, could be turned inside out. And Ayzel was no master of verbal manipulation. He had to work at it, stretching sentences, mentioning “critical timing,” “lack of communication”—the more convincing, the better. People loved a tragedy, and this might help lessen the severity of the punishment.

  By dawn, Menno had listened to his brief report, skimmed the pages, and… mercilessly began slashing out the cold bureaucratic phrasing of military jargon, replacing it with emotional rhetoric. “We don’t want them to think we had a chance to prevent the catastrophe, do we?” he murmured as he edited. The focus shifted to “suddenness,” “inevitability,” and “the heroic efforts of the Protectorium.”

  "Better this than outright refusal of justification," Ayzel thought grimly, accepting the heavily marked-up version.

  Then… Couple of days after Ayzel Volt once again found himself in the half-lit hall, where daylight never reached. Only the cold glow of lamps slid over the marble columns, casting long shadows on the floor. The air smelled of old parchment and candle wax. Just hours ago, the trial had ended—short but decisive. The trial was swift. As if the verdict had been set long before they even stepped into the hall.

  On the table before Ayzel lay a list of urgent matters awaiting him in the morning. He leaned heavily on the smooth surface, rubbing his temples: processing everything that had happened in the past few days was no easy task. Memories of the morning chaos at the Potern’s gates surfaced—streams of terrified people, the evacuation of refugees from the shattered Ao-Teien, quarantine, food distribution, grueling clashes with city police, and now the sentencing of the younger Lyuteakh. For all the years he had held his position—times as eventful as these were rare.

  When he had first met the boy, Ayzel had been twenty-five; Morveyn had barely turned twenty. Back then, he had been sure that Menno, like many high-ranking parents, was simply trying to find a place for his wayward son. Seeing that scrawny kid—who barely had a proper mustache—holding the title of Left Falconet of the Crimson Hand felt like a joke to Ayzel and to many in the Council. Ayzel had never dared to question the Supreme Commander’s decision, as he deeply respected Menno, but he hadn’t expected much from his “colleague” either.

  For the first year, Morveyn had been the subject of ridicule and whispers, but to Ayzel’s surprise, the boy never wavered, never gave anyone reason to doubt him, brushing off all jeers and jabs. It turned out that the kid hadn’t been raised in Menno’s household for nothing, and he hadn’t been slacking off at the Crimson Hand Academy either. Over time, despite their rare encounters, Ayzel realized that the Left Falconet was the very support that allowed him to fully immerse himself in the matters where he truly excelled. The young Lyuteakh took on all the unpleasant tasks neither the leader of the Protectorium nor his first aide wanted to deal with—endless bureaucratic negotiations, smoothing out interdepartmental inconsistencies, and building bridges for cooperation.

  Thanks to him, the notoriously difficult and proud Lord Uriel—the Right Falconet of the Golden Branch—had agreed to allocate dedicated transit lanes to the Protectorium for urgent operations. This meant that columns of crimson vehicles, marked with the emblem of the wolves, could reach their destinations without delays in queues or the dangers of detours. Likewise, it was his efforts that had attached the Salamander squad to the Protectorium’s strike force. His prolonged diplomatic mission to the Amethyst Hand—the Grand Artificer’s domain—had secured direct shipments of primary-charged saap crystals to the Crimson Branch’s warehouses, bypassing middlemen who profited outrageously from inter-branch mediation. The endless queue of aristocrats, businessmen, and politicians expanding the influence of the Crimson Hand had not formed on its own either.

  Menno was a brilliant strategist, and thanks to his son, he could focus on direct governance and planning rather than dissipating his efforts on endless negotiations with the nobility. Issues that could have sparked heated debates in the Council were quietly resolved behind closed doors—often more efficiently. In short, the saying that “greatness flies on two wings” perfectly described the indispensable role Morveyn Drael Lyuteakh played.

  Mor. His friend... the one who had saved dozens of lives. The one whose instincts could have once again helped prevent the next catastrophe. And instead of honoring him, they had locked him away, out of sight.

  Ayzel was still trying to process the fact that Menno himself had proposed this absurd sentence and had worked so fervently to sway the Council’s votes in favor of his brutal and senseless idea. The Well—a sentence tantamount to death.

  And Ayzel could not disobey—nothing was more terrifying than the wrath of the Crimson Hand.

  That made it all the harder to see the utter calm on his friend’s face, as if Morveyn wasn’t even surprised by the outcome.

  He had been imprisoned, but perhaps this display of cruelty would, in the end, work to his advantage—the public was already beginning to lean toward believing that the young Left Falconet had been punished too harshly.

  Ayzel rose from his chair, bolstered by the thought that it was time to go home—at least for a few hours. Just a short respite before the next storm.

  "Now we have to attempt a masterful flight with only the right wing," he thought tiredly, closing his eyes. "And I’ve grown far too used to relying on you."

  A Short Carriage Ride Felt Like an Eternity. The city did not sleep. What were once the spacious streets of the capital now resembled a besieged fortress. Makeshift tents scattered everywhere, their canvas sagging under the weight of exhaustion and despair. Gaunt, embittered faces—people cast adrift, demanding that the Tree Council and the Grand Chancellor finally take responsibility for their displaced citizens. Small riots flared up across the overcrowded streets, while patrols darted back and forth, their presence barely keeping the unrest in check. The city had plunged into madness in mere hours.

  Resettling refugees from a single destroyed region was not unusual—such things happened from time to time on the periphery, in the outer shards beyond the 500th numbering. Typically, after evacuation and the necessary safety measures, people were dispersed to nearby shards or redirected to allocation centers, where they could temporarily find shelter and food while seeking contact with relatives in other provinces or searching for work. The Confederation accounted for such contingencies, allocating a set budget for resettlement efforts in the financial plans of the periphery.

  But a catastrophe in the First Hundred… That was unprecedented.

  The influx of people surged toward the capital—a city never designed to handle such a flood of refugees.

  When Ayzel finally pushed open the heavy oak door to his quarters, he was met with the faint creak of floorboards and the dim glow of a lamp burning in the entryway.

  "Late again…" came a soft chiding voice from deeper inside the house.

  Standing at the threshold of their bedroom, arms crossed over her chest, was his wife. Elonne. A sheer night robe barely clung to her shoulders, and in her gaze, worry flickered beneath quiet understanding.

  Ayzel found himself smiling despite his exhaustion. Just one look at this small, delicate woman—his constant, standing beside him like a slender sapling next to a great rock—was enough to ease the crushing weight on his shoulders. But tonight, it was not the ancient stone offering shelter to fragile roots; rather, the slender tree was what kept the boulder from crumbling under the force of the storm.

  Or perhaps the exhaustion had not faded at all. But she grounded him—reminding him that this day, at last, had come to an end. He could finally shed his armor—both the physical and the mental.

  "Forgive me," he murmured, rubbing his temple. "The city is in chaos."

  Elonne stepped closer, her expression a blend of concern and relief that he was finally home. Her fingers traced the lapel of his uniform coat as she let out a quiet sigh.

  "Is it truly that bad? So many refugees, so many orders, endless councils… And then that trial." A note of restrained disapproval colored her voice.

  Ayzel only exhaled heavily and lowered his gaze. He wanted to tell her "Don’t ask," but she had the right to know.

  "Mori… His Excellency convinced the Council to lock him in the Well for fifteen days."

  He felt her shudder and quickly sought to reassure her.

  "He’ll be fine, my love. You know Mor is tougher than he looks."

  Pausing, he swallowed back the lingering bitterness gnawing at his conscience before finally admitting, "It wasn’t the right thing to do, of course… But it seems His Excellency has his own plans. I don’t see any other explanation. It sickens me, but I have to believe that the old fox did not do this out of spite alone."

  His voice was quiet as he sank onto the edge of the bed.

  Elonne regarded him with open skepticism.

  "But he… he saved your life, didn’t he? And thousands of others—the ones who managed to flee Ao-Teien, the ones in the buffer zones. Does no one understand that?"

  Ayzel shut his eyes, trying to push away the memories. Without Morveyn, Elonne would have been a widow. That much was certain.

  "Menno will tear apart the very ground before letting anyone question the strength of the Protectorium. People want someone to blame. His Excellency is using this punishment to silence them. I’ve spent the entire day fighting for rations, transport, housing, medical teams from the hospitals. Our entire quarantine zone is full of the distorted—we can’t save them anymore, only send them for study. Menno is too smart to waste this opportunity. I don’t fully understand how, but ever since they threw Mor in the Well, people seem to have… softened toward him. If he were free right now, we’d have to barricade the Hawk’s Nest to keep the mobs out. But now? Now they pity him."

  Ayzel scoffed bitterly.

  "How could they not?" Elonne whispered, shivering at the thought of the kind, sharp-witted Left Falconet being abandoned in a reeking pit alongside the worst criminals in the capital. "It’s barbaric—treating him as though he’s a murderer, when all he deserves is gratitude. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come home last night. I fear for you every time you leave, but this… this was so sudden, so unpredictable. Not even on a battlefield, but—"

  The silence between them was broken only by the quiet rustle of fabric as Elonne wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Ayzel’s grip tightened around her small frame, pressing her closer. Her hand drifted to the back of his head, fingers gently threading through his hair.

  Thin, delicate roots holding together the mighty stone—keeping it from splitting apart beneath the force of the wind.

  "I need sleep. And tomorrow… I have to clean up this mess," he murmured.

  Elonne nodded and pressed a light kiss to his cheek.

  "Just… promise me you’ll find a moment to rest. And perhaps to send word. I think I fear it even more now—not knowing what’s happening to you."

  Her deep blue eyes, full of love and quiet worry, nearly undid him.

  A seasoned warrior, hardened by battle, suddenly felt like he could crumble under the weight of that gaze.

  He merely let out a soft chuckle and kissed her.

  What could he promise?

  Even the title of Right Falconet had not granted him the foresight to predict what was coming next. What could he possibly say now?

  Dawn had barely broken, and Ayzel was already in the midst of It all. He hadn't even bothered with breakfast this time. Seated in the heavy transport vehicle on his way to the temporary refugee camps, he flipped through yet another set of reports. The capital was bursting at the seams.

  "Even the swamps, crawling with wild beasts, are better organized than this," he muttered, stepping out of the rumbling belly of the machine.

  The temporary encampment sprawled along the city’s outskirts, teeming with people. It looked like a disturbed anthill—queues forming for medical check-ups, food rations, official documents confirming their status under the Confederation Council’s care. And alongside these, chaotic surges of frustration, skirmishes on the verge of breaking out among those tired of the endless waiting. Overhead, the orange banners of the camp flapped in the wind.

  Nearby, two paramedics from the Salamanders worked at a makeshift station, clad in their characteristic copper-brown uniforms. Their eyes flickered between the complex readings on their devices, tracking test results.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Borderline case," one muttered to his colleague. "Might not be a full deformation yet, but we can’t take any chances."

  Ayzel stepped closer. Technically, he outranked nearly everyone in the area, but the Salamanders had their own hierarchy.

  "I’ll assign a couple of Wolves to keep this line moving," he offered. "If people start getting tangled up, it’s only going to make things worse."

  "Appreciate it," the older paramedic replied, already shifting his focus to the next patient. "Things are barely under control as it is. If they start thinking we’ve condemned them…"

  "Which, in essence, we have," the younger medic murmured under his breath, tapping his stylus against a tablet.

  Ayzel heard him but said nothing. Too close to the truth.

  If someone had already breathed it in, there was little hope. Some recovered—very few. Most did not. They called them the distorted—and that was that. No room for morality. Just isolate, observe, and hope the rest remained untainted.

  He moved further along the processing point, passing trembling refugees marked with yellow armbands—those infected but not yet showing signs of transformation. At least they still had a chance at treatment in the hospitals. Around them, an air of resigned acceptance. “At least it’s not the worst outcome.”

  A little farther down, a reinforced transport truck stood waiting, meant for those whose bodies had already begun to change, whose minds had started to slip into madness. They were taken away for more thorough procedures.

  For the medics, it was routine.

  For everyone else, a nightmare.

  Stopping at a desk buried under stacks of paperwork, Ayzel scanned the topmost sheet.

  "Any updates on hospital capacity?" he asked one of the officers.

  "We’re almost at our limit, sir," the soldier admitted. "The Salamanders insist on strict quarantines, which means patients are staying longer. At this rate, we’ll need to open a second facility."

  Ayzel nodded, the weight of exhaustion pressing against his shoulders. "I’ll contact headquarters. In the meantime, keep the lines moving. Make sure no one tries to slip through."

  "The Salamanders aren’t happy with our record-keeping either," a stocky woman in uniform added in a hushed voice. "They say we’re duplicating reports. We have to fill out everything twice—once for them, once for us."

  "Sounds about right," Ayzel muttered with a dry smirk. "They have their chain of command, we have ours. Just make sure everyone stays informed. No surprises."

  Not far from him, a heated argument broke out between Sir Asgold and Sir Saaggs.

  Asgold, wearing the copper-brown of the Salamanders, was the senior officer here, having overseen the evacuation of Ao-Teien. Saaggs, officially a medic, but in practice a representative of the Protectorium’s special research units, had equal authority.

  They were pointing at test results, their tones sharp: Saaggs demanded immediate quarantine, while Asgold argued that borderline cases should be handled with more care.

  Ayzel sighed, irritation curling at the edges of his nerves. He raised a hand.

  "Move these families through faster. If extra tests are needed, take them straight to the Salamanders—don’t make them wait in the general queue."

  A soldier saluted and sprinted off. Ayzel exhaled, rolling his shoulders. If the city had any hope of avoiding outright collapse, both branches would have to cooperate—whether they liked it or not.

  Though, in all honesty, he would rather face a monstrous abomination from beyond the veil than keep wrestling with this bureaucratic nightmare.

  "Curator, more delays in the queues!" a sergeant rushed up to him, breathless. "The Copper Branch is requesting additional scans—"

  "No more delays. Anyone we can’t immediately classify—send them to the hospitals. Otherwise, we’ll still be standing in this damn line when winter rolls in," Ayzel snapped, frustration mounting.

  He trusted only one man’s judgment in these cases—Morveyn.

  Ayzel himself didn’t have the gift. Neither did the paramedics. They had to rely on their instruments and protocols. And they knew how often those failed. For every borderline case they sent into mandatory treatment, just as many would slip through unnoticed—spreading the corruption even further.

  It felt like the scene at the Potern was repeating itself down to the last detail, except this time, there was no panic. No imminent disaster.

  Just cold, bitter anger.

  Clutching a folder of reports, he stalked toward the city police officer standing near the tents, brows furrowed in irritation.

  "Where the hell are we supposed to put all these people? The city shelters aren’t bottomless pits," the officer barked, voice sharp. "Just send them to the hospitals—no need for this riffraff to wander through the capital."

  "The infected are going to the hospitals," Ayzel countered evenly. "But the rest need proper resettlement. And your city services would do well to move faster with providing them shelter. We’re saving your sorry asses from the corruption—this isn’t an excuse to dump the entire burden on the Protectorium. Have you lost your damn mind if you think I can just dump thousands of people into the wild? These are workers, citizens, for fuck’s sake. If you don’t want riots, then help keep order instead of whining."

  The officer sighed heavily, shoving a thin report into Ayzel’s hands. "Fine, Curator. But keep in mind—my patrols aren’t infinite. Half the city’s already panicking, and crime is on the rise. We’re stretched thin. Do something about it."

  His fingers twitched at his side. A habit he’d never managed to unlearn—an old instinct, reaching for a weapon when words weren’t enough.

  Oh, I’d do something, alright—starting with wringing your lazy, well-rested neck, Ayzel thought bitterly, glaring at the officer’s ruddy, well-fed face.

  Instead, he only grumbled, "Fine. I’ll see if I can spare a few patrols. Hold the damn line in the meantime."

  Inside, he was seething.

  This wasn’t war, where he could cut through problems with a blade.

  This was endless political theater—where every player pulled the blanket toward themselves, securing their own interests while leaving the rest to rot.

  This was where a Left Falconet was needed. Someone with a silver tongue, an easy charm, a way with words.

  For a fleeting moment, Ayzel found himself questioning whether Menno had truly thought this through—sending his son away at precisely the worst possible moment.

  The days dragged on, heavy and relentless. Riots in the city, a surge in crime, and yet the Tree Council wasted its efforts on internal squabbles instead of addressing the real crisis. From morning to night, Ayzel struggled to maintain some semblance of order—fighting to secure transport, medical supplies, and additional funding from the different branches. Meanwhile, the archivists of the Roots buried every directive in an avalanche of paperwork—forms, tables, endless reports—each order sinking into bureaucratic quicksand.

  But the mood on the streets was shifting. Not long ago, Morveyn had been branded a monster, the man who sealed the Portal and left countless souls to die behind it. Now, whispers of his punishment being inhumane were spreading. Someone had started restoring the torn-down posters bearing his name, placing candles beside them in quiet defiance.

  Inside the Protectorium, however, the sentiment was the opposite. Menno’s principled resolve was lauded—he had been strong enough to pass judgment on his own son. Ironically, the situation seemed to work in favor of both Luteakhs: the Protectorium’s reputation remained untarnished, while Morveyn’s public image was subtly transformed from villain to tragic figure.

  Eventually, at yet another Tree Council session, Ayzel raised the issue of the refugees swarming the capital. And once again, all he received were vague excuses: "Resettlement is a complicated process," "We need inter-branch coordination," "The uninhabited shards of the periphery aren’t safe." Utter nonsense.

  Exhausted but unyielding, Ayzel kept pushing forward, though in truth, there was only one thing he truly longed for—Morveyn’s return to duty. The burden of responsibility was suffocating. The Right Falconet fell asleep dreaming of the day his friend would take back all the frustrating yet necessary tasks that Ayzel had never been suited for.

  On the eve of the second week deadline, Ayzel stood before Menno once more, delivering his latest report. The old man listened in his usual composed silence, absorbing the endless accounts of disarray—reports he had likely already read in his daily briefings.

  Ayzel didn’t need to guess why the Commander-in-Chief had summoned him.

  "Morveyn is being released tomorrow."

  For the first time in weeks, Aizel felt something close to relief—sharp, unfamiliar, and dangerously tempting. He had spent every waking hour stamping out crises, wading through bureaucratic sludge, and watching the city teeter on the edge of collapse.

  Tomorrow, that weight wouldn’t be his alone.

  He exhaled, letting himself believe—just for a moment—that he could finally step back. The endless councils, the political maneuvering, the infuriating diplomacy—Morveyn could have it. He was the one built for it, the one who thrived in that tangled battlefield of words and alliances.

  Aizel just needed to hold on a little longer. Then, finally, he could breathe.

  Tomorrow, his friend would be free. Alive. And that, at the very least, was a victory. Let Morveyn handle the damn negotiations and court intrigue—Ayzel had never cared for politics, and he desperately needed a break.

  "I look forward to it, Your Excellency," he replied, unable to completely mask the relief in his voice. "I’ve prepared everything for the transition. He should have no trouble catching up on the current situation."

  "It’s too early for that, my boy." Menno’s voice was steady, final. "The moment my son shakes off the dust of imprisonment, I’m sending him to Te-Aroed. Now is the perfect time to settle an unfinished matter in the Monselu estate. Besides," the old man added with a faint smirk, "after the Well, he’ll be… more agreeable."

  Ayzel’s jaw tightened.

  "You want… the Falconet to visit relatives?" There was a touch of insolence in his tone—small, but unmistakable. Yet Menno didn’t seem particularly bothered by it.

  "I had hoped," Ayzel continued, measuring his words, "that I could count on Falconet Luteakh’s support in matters that require immediate attention. Matters where his talents are invaluable."

  "You’re managing just fine on your own," Menno cut him off. "Right now, it’s more important to tie up loose ends before he stirs up trouble again. There may never be a better opportunity to send him there. Without false modesty, I’ll say this—I’ve worked a miracle with his reputation. But we all know it’s only a matter of time before the reckless boy squanders all my efforts."

  A miracle. Sure.

  Menno had let the public hate him first. Let them cry for blood. And just when their rage reached its peak, he turned the tide. He had turned his son into a villain, then into a martyr. Controlled destruction, followed by calculated restoration. A butcher bird never wasted its prey. The trial, the sentence, the spectacle of it all—none of it was about justice. It was about control. The Protectorium looked stronger for condemning its own, and now, when it was too late to change a damn thing, the people started lighting candles.

  They didn’t call Menno Luteakh Lanius for nothing. A butcher bird—one that impales its prey, leaves it to wither, and only then comes back to feast.

  Anger flared in his chest, hot and sharp. He could argue—push back, demand that Morveyn be sent where he was actually needed. But what then? Menno didn’t make careless decisions, and if he thought sending Morveyn away was the right move, then there was a reason. A damn good one.

  That was the problem with serving under a man like Menno Luteakh. You could hate his choices, curse them under your breath—but at the end of the day, you still knew he was probably right.

  Ayzel exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of it. No point wasting energy on a fight he wasn’t going to win.

  "Of course, Your Excellency," he replied evenly, smoothing his voice into a mask of perfect obedience.

  Menno neither nodded nor offered any sign of approval, yet Ayzel could see the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had planned.

  When the doors to the office closed behind him, Ayzel lingered in the empty corridor.

  Beyond the palace’s narrow windows, the city’s skyline was painted in deepening twilight, its streets simmering with unrest.

  And in the suffocating darkness of the Well, Morveyn was counting down the final hours of his sentence.

  Ayzel ran a hand down his face, trying to dispel the frustration coiling in his chest.

  Two weeks had passed.

  Two weeks of turmoil, chaos, and ceaseless negotiations.

  And in all that time, he hadn’t managed to carve out a single hour—hadn’t even tried—to secure a meeting with his friend.

  All he could think now was that he was so damn tired of this.

  The only reason Morveyn was still breathing was the circuit embedded in his gut. The stones burned within him, their relentless heat pulsing like a second heartbeat, vibrating beneath his skin, making his very touch feel like the edge of a blade. Perhaps that was the only thing keeping the cold at bay—the cold that had settled deep into his bones, seeping into every inch of his body.

  More than once, in the beginning, he had been beaten, left sprawled in the filth of the Well. And each time, the circuit pulled him back from the brink, knitting flesh, mending bruises, making him more and more of a threat to the wretches trapped down here with him. His body bore no lasting wounds. He could not die from hunger, cold, or thirst—but that did not mean he didn’t feel them. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach, the stench thick enough to choke on, the sickly, festering air of despair that coated every breath.

  But unlike the others, he knew—knew—that he would walk out of here.

  There was no need to claw for survival, to brawl for scraps of rancid slop or a share of the stagnant water passed down to them like mock charity. He did not seek fights to silence the gnawing hunger twisting inside him. Stay human. That was all he had left to hold on to. Even if these creatures, these human carrion he was locked in with, were worth less than the rats skittering through the filth, he refused to stoop to their level.

  He had already passed judgment before—up there, beyond this pit. He had taken lives, carried out justice with his own hands. But here, in the Well, stripped of his name and title, he would not play executioner.

  Only pride and rage kept his mind sharp. Otherwise, without a steady source of sustenance, he was slipping—his limbs heavy, his thoughts dull. When, near the end of his sentence, two new prisoners were thrown into the pit, he barely had the strength to lift his head.

  They were former workers from Ao-Teien, cast down here after committing murder in the chaos of the city. Refugees turned predators, they had robbed and killed, justifying their actions with the same tired excuse: No one would help them, so they helped themselves.

  Descending into the pit, they muttered to each other in cruel anticipation, already looking forward to gnawing on what was left of that jackal Lyuteakh.

  Morveyn forced himself to move. To rise. To greet his guests.

  They lunged at him without hesitation, snarling through clenched teeth.

  “My sister and mother-in-law were left outside the gates when you shut them, you bastard!” one of them spat. “I barely made it through, but my sister—she was pregnant, she couldn’t run—”

  Morveyn tilted his head, regarding the man coldly.

  “And yet you were the one shoving your way to the front, trampling over her in your rush to save yourself.”

  Their bodies hit the ground a moment later, limbs convulsing as the last dregs of warmth drained from them.

  Morveyn felt nothing. No guilt. No pity.

  And yet—pleasure. A raw, intoxicating rush of life flooding his withered body, setting every nerve alight. The circuit flared like an open wound, sending waves of heat through his veins, a sensation both agonizing and intoxicating. He could feel it stretching, repairing, feeding—an awful, cloying relief. It almost knocked him off his feet. For a moment, he swayed, nearly drunk on the stolen vitality, his breath coming sharp and ragged. His hands—still tingling, still craving—refused to obey. He had to force himself to yank them away as their bodies spasmed beneath him, the last vestiges of borrowed strength unraveling into the air.

  Shame coiled in his stomach, bitter and cold. This wasn’t hunger or desperation—it was something far worse. It was the sheer, primal joy of a body clawing its way back to life, heedless of the price. And it reminded him, with sickening clarity, of that last night—of Loran, of the acrid scent of schism and hellpowder thick in the air.

  He did not kill them—no, he had stopped just short. But he could have.

  The surge of stolen energy settled deep in his core, stabilizing him. Making him whole again.

  And the rest of the prisoners? No one dared to move. The silence stretched, thick and unnatural—no ragged curses, no shifting bodies in the filth, not even the restless stirring of the half-dead. Just breath, held too long. Just the damp, smothering dark, where sound carried sharper than sight ever could.

  They couldn’t see what had happened. But they had heard. The struggle, the gasping collapse, the brittle snap of something vital unraveling. And worst of all—the absence of anything that should have followed. No victory cry. No words. Just quiet. Just him, somewhere in the black, breathing steady, untouched.

  They did not huddle away from him. No. It was worse than that. They simply pretended he wasn’t there at all.

  They had been reminded once more why no one dared approach the bloody Falconet.

  Morveyn lowered himself back into the filth, pressing his spine against the frost-rimed wall. His breathing slowed, evening out, but his mind refused to quiet.

  That thought—the one that had been circling the edges of his awareness for days—finally took form.

  That scent. The barely-there trace lingering on the stranger he had met that night.

  He could throw as many wretches into the dirt as he wanted down here—men the courts had already branded the worst of the worst—but out there, beyond this pit, the real monsters still walked free. The ones he would seek out himself the moment he was loose.

  Because he had to find it. The source. The root of the rot.

  To stay human—or at least, to keep pretending he was.