"Cale?" Xentar's voice trembled, floating nervously beside him.

  Cale's burning blue eyes turned toward the wisp.

  Xentar immediately floated back, instinctively shrinking away.

  Those eyes—cold, hard as the steel—were the same he had seen when Cale had almost killed Tiana.

  Xentar shivered.

  Cale was changing.

  And Xentar didn’t know if it was for better—or for something far, far worse.

  Cale walked past the eviscerated corpses littering the hall, his boots splashing through puddles of blood without hesitation.

  There were people to save.

  That was all that mattered.

  He moved toward the cells. Heads turned. Some faces watched him with awe—others with deep, trembling fear. His very presence, wrapped in burning dark steel, seemed more specter than savior.

  He didn’t speak.

  With a flick of his fingers, the metal bars bent inward, screaming under the pressure. Chains snapped like dried twigs, falling to the ground with hollow clinks.

  Some prisoners cried. Some cowered. Others, too broken by cruelty, simply stared blankly, their souls nearly hollow.

  He kept searching.

  Then he saw them.

  Huddled together in the back of a cramped cell, three young girls.

  Triplets.

  Their skin was pale as moonlight, marred with bruises and dirt. Sharp white hair spilled over their shoulders in messy waves, thick and matted in places. On their heads, furred ears—canine or perhaps lupine—twitched nervously. Their frames were slender, still growing into the women they would become, but already worn down by starvation and fear.

  Yet even in their fear, their bond was unbreakable. They clung to each other, trembling, tears streaking down soot-stained cheeks.

  From their father’s memories, Cale remembered them.

  He remembered their names.

  Lira, Senn, and Veyra.

  They were fifteen.

  Too young to carry the scars they bore.

  He approached, the steel over his face receding slowly, revealing the young man beneath.

  The soulfire still shimmered faintly in his blue eyes, making them glow like twin stars in the dim light of the prison.

  He knelt before them, careful to leave a few respectful steps of space between himself and the terrified girls.

  They flinched, clutching tighter to one another, their small bodies shivering with fear.

  Cale’s heart twisted in his chest.

  What could he say to bridge the gap between a himself and three broken children?

  He pressed his lips into a thin line.

  Then spoke, his voice soft, but strong enough to cut through the ruin.

  "I’m a friend of your father," he said, each word measured and true. "And I've come to save you."

  The girls blinked.

  Tears welled in Lira’s wide silver eyes.

  Senn’s hands relaxed slightly on her sisters’ shoulders.

  Veyra sniffled, staring at him as though trying to pierce through the armor and fire to find the man underneath.

  Cale stayed kneeling, waiting.

  Not reaching. Not forcing.

  Finally, Lira shifted first, timidly stepping toward him.

  Her small hand trembled as she reached out, brushing her fingertips lightly against the edge of his armored gauntlet.

  It was enough.

  One by one, they moved.

  Lira. Senn. Veyra.

  They pressed against him, clinging to his chest, sobbing into the steel that moments ago had been used for slaughter.

  Cale closed his arms around them carefully, shielding them as best he could.

  For a brief moment, he didn’t feel like a monster.

  And he swore—deep within the marrow of his soul—that no one would ever hurt them again.

  Not while he still drew breath.

  Cale emerged from the cell and looked ahead

  A small group had gathered in the bloodstained corridor, lit only by the flicker of dying rune-stones. Among them stood a tall elf—graceful despite the filth and exhaustion, his posture ramrod straight even in the face of ruin.

  His skin was the color of old parchment, streaked with soot and blood. Long, braided silver hair fell over his shoulders, framing a narrow face marred by a fresh gash over one cheekbone. His eyes, though weary, burned with restrained fire—the quiet strength of a man who had survived horrors but hadn’t let them hollow him out.

  He stepped forward.

  Then he bowed.

  Low.

  "Thank you for saving us," he said, voice heavy with sincerity. He kept his gaze on the ground for a moment, like the words themselves were too sacred to speak while looking another in the eye.

  Then he straightened.

  "I am Kelkas Oaksinger," he said. "If it is not too much, may I know the name of our savior?"

  Cale hesitated, then spoke.

  "Cale."

  Only Cale.

  He kept his family name hidden.

  The memories he had taken from the spirits of the enslaved and those working in the underground world had taught him well. In this city, names were power. Names were currency.

  And the name of the man who had just obliterated Vaelric Drell’s slave empire would carry a weight he could not afford—not yet.

  His face was hidden beneath steel once more.

  Only his glowing eyes shone, pale blue fire flickering behind the visor.

  It was enough to unnerve Kelkas and the rest of the freed captives.

  A savior, yes.

  But a terrifying one.

  Cale’s gaze swept across the hallway. Some survivors stood with difficulty, leaning on walls or each other. Others remained collapsed in their cells, too wounded—too broken—to move.

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  Most weren’t even from Gravemount.

  Foreigners.

  Displaced.

  Forgotten.

  He could not help them all—not alone.

  But he knew someone who might.

  He steeled himself.

  His voice rang like a blade drawn in silence.

  "We are leaving this place. Soon all of you will see the light of day again."

  Dozens of eyes turned toward him—wide, haunted, and full of something he hadn’t expected.

  Hope.

  All his life, Cale had longed for this: to be seen, to be needed, to be called a hero.

  But in this moment, he didn’t want the title.

  Because for someone to be saved… someone first had to suffer.

  And that made the word hero taste like ash on his tongue.

  'Why can’t people just be kind to one another?' he thought bitterly.

  A foolish, innocent question.

  But one he still couldn’t help but ask.

  Metal groaned around him as bars, chains, shattered blades, and rusted shackles twisted through the air. They came together, humming with power, until they reshaped themselves into metal stretchers—dozens of them.

  "Place those who cannot walk onto the stretchers," Cale commanded.

  Kelkas nodded at once and turned to the others, barking soft orders. The able-bodied helped the fallen. Carefully, respectfully.

  Meanwhile, behind the cages, beast-creatures howled and shrieked—driven mad by the scent of blood, the noise, the fear.

  Cale left them.

  He had more important lives to protect.

  The triplets remained by his side, clinging to his steel-armored frame as he walked back to Vaelric's room.

  When they saw Vaelric’s corpse, the girls recoiled, hiding behind him.

  Sunken eyes.

  Mouth agape.

  A face twisted into a final expression of horror.

  Cale raised a hand, gently brushing the girls back.

  "Stay calm," he murmured his tone warm. "He will never hurt anyone again."

  He stepped deeper into Vaelric’s chamber.

  There, beside the left wall, he pressed a brick. It shifted with a click.

  The lock-down mechanisms disengaged.

  Metal spikes receded into the walls and floor. The exits opened once more.

  He turned his gaze to the floor beneath the desk.

  Four soft taps—precise, rhythmic.

  A hidden slab loosened and slid away, revealing a safe of blackened metal.

  Faint enchantments shimmered on its surface, but the lock itself was made of steel.

  He didn’t need a key. He simply willed the door open. There was a faint resistance—some minor enchantment, no doubt—but it was nothing against the force of Cale’s metal bending.

  The mechanism clicked, and the door creaked wide.

  Inside: stacks of gold coins, glinting gemstones, contracts, ledgers—wealth built on suffering.

  The safe rose with a groan, drawn by unseen force until it hovered beside him, metal humming.

  He returned to the girls.

  Their eyes widened as the floating vault settled at his side.

  "It’s time to leave," he said, meeting each of their gazes.

  They nodded.

  No words needed.

  He led them back to the hallway.

  The survivors were ready.

  The stretchers were filled. The wounded secured.

  Kelkas stepped forward. Cale gave him a brief nod.

  Then he turned.

  And led the way.

  The darkness behind them was filled with blood and silence, but their heart were filled with hope.

  They emerged into a large, dust-cloaked basement.

  One of Vaelric’s many secret entrances to the tunnels below.

  Cale was the last to step through. As the final survivor stumbled into the light, he turned and pressed a hidden switch on the wall. A deep rumble followed as the secret door sealed shut, the mechanisms locking with finality.

  He reinforced it further, reshaping metal inside the walls, fusing locks beyond any simple repair.

  The exit was buried.

  Safe.

  Cale turned, surveying the survivors packed tightly in the basement. Exhaustion, fear, and flickering hope filled the air like the scent of old stone.

  He moved through them to Kelkas.

  "Please," Cale said, his voice firm but kind. "Watch over them. I will return soon. I need to speak with someone who can help you get home."

  Kelkas nodded, the fire in his eyes smothered but not extinguished.

  This place had once been a nobleman’s home—a lavish mansion purchased by Vaelric not for living but for convenience.

  Located deep in the Aurelian Crown, the inner ring of the city, it was a fortress hidden in plain sight, a stone’s throw from the city’s political heart.

  It had cost Vaelric a fortune, but it had been perfect.

  Safe. Discreet.

  Profitable.

  Cale knelt before the triplets—Lira, Senn, and Veyra.

  Their white hair was matted and dirty, their faces pale and drawn, but their silver eyes still held light.

  He lowered himself until they were eye-level, trying to seem smaller, less imposing.

  "I’ll be back soon," he said, his voice softer than steel had any right to be. "Please wait for me."

  For a moment, they hesitated.

  Then Lira leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

  "We will wait," she whispered.

  Cale smiled beneath his helmet.

  He rose, nodded once, and turned toward the narrow stairwell leading up.

  The mansion above was mostly abandoned, but Vaelric had been paranoid. Traps riddled the halls and staircases.

  Fortunately, Cale knew every mechanism.

  He descended into the memory of Vaelric’s mind—leaned down at the base of the stairwell, pressed a hidden notch at the right corner—and heard the satisfying click of traps disengaging.

  Vaelric had trusted mechanical traps more than magic, believing magic could be sensed. It had worked for decades.

  Until someone stole his memories.

  The sun was setting as Cale slipped into the alleys, careful to avoid attention.

  The Aurelian Crown was a district of opulence. Every building was a masterpiece of architecture: towering marble facades, windows of stained glass reflecting the dying light in a hundred colors, gold-trimmed arches spanning wide promenades. Gardens of impossible beauty thrived atop balconies, and statues of heroes long dead stood sentinel at every corner.

  It was a city within a city—a place untouched by the hunger and rot below.

  And it disgusted him.

  Finally, he reached his destination.

  A house of two floors—small by the standards of the Aurelian Crown, yet impeccably built. A simple oak door. Sturdy walls of grey stone. No decoration, no guards.

  Wealth hidden by humility.

  He knocked.

  Footsteps approached.

  The door opened, revealing a man who filled the doorway like a mountain.

  He was tall, broader than Cale by a full head, with the weathered strength of a seasoned warrior. His hair, once black, was now a proud silver, tied behind his head in a warrior’s tail. A short, sharp beard framed a strong jaw. His eyes—gray and cutting—were the eyes of a man who had seen battles, betrayals, and broken oaths and survived them all.

  He regarded Cale with calm scrutiny.

  "How can I help you?" the man asked, his voice deep and measured.

  Cale didn’t flinch.

  "I need to speak with you," he said. "Inside. It’s important."

  The man studied him for a moment longer.

  Then he stepped aside and waved Cale in.

  "Come," he said. "Speak your mind."

  Cale entered, his boots thudding softly on polished stone. The inside was as simple as the exterior: a heavy oak table, battered armchairs, and a rack of old, masterfully crafted weapons hung with reverence along one wall.

  The man gestured toward an armchair.

  Cale obliged.

  "Now, young man," he said, settling opposite him. "Who are you, and what brings you to my doorstep?"

  His name was Master Ardan Vaelor.

  A Grandmaster Arcane Blade.

  One of the few men who could claim mastery over both spellcraft and sword alike.

  A man who had turned his back on the politics of Gravemount—and built a reputation as a protector of the forgotten.

  And now, Cale needed him.

  Desperately.

  Cale straightened his back in the chair, meeting Ardan’s piercing gaze without hesitation.

  "My name is Cale," he said simply.

  Ardan gave a small nod, waiting.

  Cale continued, his voice low but steady.

  "Today, I liberated dozens of slaves from an underground prison run by Vaelric Drell. I dismantled his operation."

  A heavy silence fell over the room.

  Ardan’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening.

  The name Vaelric Drell was venom.

  Cale could feel the storm gathering behind those gray eyes.

  "You did what most dared not even whisper," Ardan said quietly, his voice barely above a growl.

  Cale offered a nod.

  "Can you take care of the rescued people? Some of them will need medical attention. Others..." Cale's fists clenched. "Others may remain broken for the rest of their lives."

  Ardan leaned back into his chair, exhaling slowly, his broad chest rising with the weight of responsibility.

  Then he leaned forward, placing a calloused hand on the armrest as he fixed Cale with a steely look.

  "I swear on my blade," Ardan said, voice steady as the earth, "that I will see them safe. I will not allow their suffering to be in vain."

  Cale bowed his head deeply.

  "Thank you," he said simply.

  He told Ardan the location of the mansion, the hidden basement where the survivors waited.

  Cale rose from the chair. Ardan stood with him and walked him to the door.

  "I take it you want your identity to remain hidden," Ardan said, pulling the heavy door open. "His partners will not sit idle after this. They will want blood for what you’ve done."

  Cale’s jaw tightened.

  Vaelric was dead.

  But the rot was not yet cut out.

  "Can we meet again?" Cale asked. "Tomorrow night. By Sunwalk Gate. There’s more I need to tell you, but I made a promise to someone... I have to return by nightfall."

  Ardan nodded, a slow, deliberate motion of trust.

  "See you soon, kid," Ardan said.

  Cale bowed his head once more and stepped into the falling dusk.

  Ardan stood in the doorway, watching him until he disappeared into the maze of alleys.

  Cale descended back into the hidden basement, now fully clad once more in dark steel. Every eye turned toward him as he appeared—hope shining where once there had only been fear.

  Kelkas ran to him, the elf stumbling slightly in his urgency.

  Cale raised a hand to steady him.

  "Soon," Cale announced, his voice carrying through the room, "soon all of you will be taken home."

  There was a heartbeat of silence.

  Then the room exploded.

  Some raised fists high, cheering with broken voices filled relief. Others collapsed to their knees, sobbing, unable to believe their nightmare had ended.

  Kelkas dropped to his knees before Cale, clutching his armored hand with both of his own.

  "Thank you," he whispered, voice cracking with the weight of gratitude.

  Tears fell freely from his face, splashing onto the stone floor below.

  Cale placed his free hand gently over Kelkas’ trembling ones.

  For a moment, the basement was silent except for the sound of weeping.

  Then Kelkas let go and stood up, squaring his shoulders as if carrying the gratitude of every soul present.

  "If you ever visit Lysandria, please visit Silver Pines," Kelkas said, naming his far-off home, "seek me out. I swear on all that I have, your deeds will not go unrewarded."

  Cale offered a silent nod.

  He turned, walking toward the triplets—Lira, Senn, and Veyra.

  They were still waiting for him.

  Part of him, the hardened warrior who had just torn apart a slaver’s empire, knew he should leave them in Ardan’s care. It would be safer. Wiser.

  But he couldn’t.

  Maybe it was the memories of their father, burned into his mind and heart. Maybe it was something deeper.

  He couldn’t leave them.

  Not yet.

  He knelt before them, his armor groaning softly as he lowered himself.

  "I’m sorry," he said, voice thick. "But here we part ways. You are safe now. A kind man will look after you."

  He stood, heart wrenching with every word.

  He turned.

  His foot touched the first stair.

  He paused.

  He wanted—desperately—to look back one last time.

  But he couldn’t.

  Because if he did, he might never find the strength to walk away.

  Hot tears blurred his vision, sliding freely down his face beneath the steel mask.

  He climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last.

  He had seen enough for today.

  And a part of him knew...

  He would never be the same again.