"Ugh…" Viktor groaned, his words slurred. His stomach turned, then lurched. A wet heave followed, empty and violent, the sound abrupt and raw, echoing off stone.

  "Viktor…?" The voice came hazy at first—low, cautious. "Viktor, talk to me. You with me?"

  Another dry cough rattled his chest. He rolled to his side, one arm trembling beneath him. "Who—" His voice rasped. "...Faros?"

  "Yeah," came the reply. "Yeah, it's me."

  He blinked hard. Shapes came into focus—torchlight flickering, old brick, metal bars. A cell. Another to his left—Faros crouched next to the bars, his face half-shadowed but watching attentively.

  "I wasn't sure you'd wake," Faros said, quieter this time.

  Viktor pressed his knuckles against his skull. "Feels like I got kicked by a fucking mule…"

  Faros let out a huff that sounded more like regret than amusement. "Steel-handled dagger butt'll do that."

  "Would've preferred the mule." Viktor swallowed, winced again. "Where… where the hell are we?"

  "Sublevel holding," Faros said. "East quarter complex."

  Viktor dragged his hand across his temple, rubbed at a crust of blood. His nostrils flared. "Gods," he muttered under his breath. "What the hell happened?"

  "You're here," Faros said, all humor gone, "because the guild decided the Lycona chapter was a liability."

  Viktor's fingers stilled.

  "Labeled us traitors," Faros added.

  Viktor didn't respond at first, but his stomach had stopped fidgeting. His silence sharpened.

  "The attack," he said eventually.

  "Yeah," Faros confirmed grimly.

  "The Hollow Hand—real?"

  "Oh, it was real," Faros said. "Reinforcements were never sent. Messengers never dispatched."

  Viktor slowly sat more upright. "That can't be true. must've been a mistake"

  Faros shook his head. "It was sanctioned. They… They wanted us gone."

  Viktor stared at him.

  "Just look at where you are right now," Faros went on. "You're in a fucking cell."

  "You're saying," Viktor started, but stopped. His voice had dropped an octave. "You're saying they let us die."

  "They may not have been the instigators," Faros muttered. "But they sure as hell didn't try to prevent it."

  A long breath dragged from Viktor's lungs. "Why?"

  Faros hesitated. And that, more than anything, made Viktor's head lift sharply.

  "There were rumors," Faros said, almost like he wasn't sure he should.

  "Of what?"

  "Of me," Faros finally admitted. "Of dissent."

  Viktor snorted—a bitter, tired sound. "Of course."

  "I had some… conversations," Faros offered, half-defensive. "Quiet ones. I wanted the High Warden gone."

  "Oh, just that?" Viktor drawled harshly, head tipping toward the bars. "A little friendly regicide."

  "It wasn't treason. Not at first. I wanted... reform," Faros said, jaw tightening. "I thought the guild had lost its marrow."

  "So instead you sliced through the bone," Viktor muttered.

  Faros didn't answer that. He shifted backward, stared down at his hands.

  "You were going to take over," Viktor pressed, voice quieter now, but not gentler.

  "I wanted to reset things," Faros said softly. "Use influence. Pressure. Not violence."

  "Your backers didn't get the memo?" Viktor asked.

  "They did," Faros replied. "Until they didn't. When the wind shifted, they outed me. Threw down a list of names, tied neat with a bow."

  Viktor stared at him, unmoving. "And the rest of us died for your ambition."

  Faros's lips parted. He started to answer, thought better of it, closed them again. His silence spoke louder.

  "They saw an opportunity," he said, eventually. "Make an example. Clear the shelves. Roll Lycona into a cautionary tale. Put a seal on what was."

  "And you?" Viktor asked, voice thinner, more blade than echo. "What are you now?"

  "An afterthought," Faros said bitterly. "A caution to the next fool."

  Viktor closed his eyes—just for a breath, as if bracing. Then, quieter than before: "Mira?"

  Faros didn't answer.

  Viktor opened his eyes, looked sideways.

  "Don't," he said. "Don't make me ask twice."

  Faros's shoulders rose slowly, breath pulling in. Then fell. "I overheard the guards, Viktor. I… I'm sorry."

  Viktor turned his head away. No breath hitched. No sob slipped. But the way he stared past the floor said enough.

  Quietly, Faros added, "But your friends… they're not all dead."

  At that, Viktor's brow twitched.

  "Really," Faros continued. "Two floors down. They were moved."

  His voice lightened, just slightly. "Still alive. For now."

  Viktor didn't blink. "Why keep them alive?"

  "Deliberation, I'd guess. Timing. Waiting on someone up top to send the nod."

  "For what?" Viktor's voice had lowered. Hardened.

  "Complete erasure," Faros said. "Tie up all the names. No whispers left."

  "But they had nothing to do with your damn scheming."

  "They're loose ends," Faros replied with grim familiarity. "Doesn't matter how involved they were."

  "That's fucking insane," Viktor said. "That's not the guild we signed up for."

  "Isn't it?" Faros asked, one brow rising.

  That one hit—and hard.

  Viktor dropped his chin, clenched his teeth. His fingers curled into tight fists on the dusty stone.

  "Why am I here?" he asked, voice sharpened. "With you. Not with the rest of them?"

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  "No idea," Faros said. "Maybe a clerical fuckup. Maybe they have no idea who you are. Maybe up here was all they had left."

  "Well then," Viktor muttered, a dry breath escaping his lips, "they're bigger idiots than I thought."

  Faros arched an eyebrow. "Can you get us out?"

  There was no answer.

  Viktor raised his head, slowly. Looked around. Studied the bars. The torchlight. The stone-tiled floor that had probably held a hundred prisoners and failed to keep their secrets.

  "Yes," he said simply.

  Faros's voice sharpened. "Then we move. I have a route. Back tunnel. South corridor, less guarded. It's dangerous, but it'll get us out."

  "No."

  Faros flinched. "What?"

  "I'm not leaving without them."

  "Viktor, I—listen to me. We don't have time to make this a rescue mission."

  "Then we make the time," Viktor said, unmoved.

  "If we stay, we both die," Faros countered. "They'll hunt us down like rats."

  "I'd like to fucking see them try."

  Faros leaned toward the bars now, voice low but urgent. "Viktor—I understand what you're feeling, but it's suicide. We leave now, we live."

  "I make my own calls now."

  "You think I want to leave them?" Faros hissed. "You think I want to abandon them? I'm doing the only thing I still can—survive."

  Viktor stood, slow and unstable at first. His legs shook. His left knee sagged once, but he caught himself.

  "I understand," he said. "But I'm not you."

  "Viktor—"

  "You've been good to us," Viktor continued. "I'll give you that. But don't get confused—I'm not under your command. Not anymore. If it comes down to it…"

  He met Faros's gaze, stare like heat.

  "I'll leave you behind before I leave them."

  Faros fell quiet.

  For a long few seconds, neither moved.

  Then Faros sighed. "That's fair. We help them, first."

  Viktor raised one hand.

  Faros didn't move.

  The air changed.

  A low tremor rolled through the room. Subtle. Then sharper.

  The torchlight wavered.

  "First Lycona," Viktor said, not to Faros.

  "Then Voralis. And now Mira."

  His voice dropped. Cold. Final. "I've lost enough."

  "I'm fucking done—I don't bend. Not anymore."

  The steel gate moaned—then screeched. Metal twisted, then ripped from the stone like paper. The door slammed into the far wall with a thunderous crack, shaking dust from the ceiling and a piece of mortar loose.

  Faros stared at him, mouth parted. Not in awe—more like disbelief edged with fear.

  Viktor's shoulders squared beneath the glow, his jaw set. His eyes burned with grief—and something far darker.

  Whatever the guild had thought he was, whatever they believed they could do to him—

  They were wrong.

  Viktor stepped out of his cell with quiet finality, his boots whispering against stone. He moved slowly, but there was weight in every step—unflinching, predatory calm. Outside Faros's cell, he stopped short and tilted his head.

  Faros didn't speak, didn't dare move. He gripped the bars without thinking, his fingers finding rust and cold iron.

  Viktor raised his hand—no grand gesture, no shout—and the gate folded in on itself like soft parchment. No clang. No explosion. Just the sound of twisted steel compressed into something unrecognizable.

  Faros stared, mouth parting slightly.

  "What are you waiting for?" Viktor said flatly. "Lead the way."

  The words hit like a bucket of cold riverwater. Faros blinked, blinked again, then swallowed hard and took a shaky step forward.

  "Right," he muttered. "Yes. Of course."

  They moved down the corridor together in stiff silence. Each step farther from his cell made Faros's legs move smoother. Made the weight on his chest shift—but not lighten. The stench of old blood clung to the walls, thick as dust or guilt.

  Then came the shout—from around the corner. "Oi! Stop right there!"

  Faros flinched. Two guards burst into sight, blades half-raised, faces etched with alarm.

  Viktor didn't even glance toward them.

  "Hey! You deaf?! Hands in the—"

  He lifted one hand and gave it two short twists in the air.

  There was a sickening snap—twice—and the guards collapsed mid-step. Their weapons clattered but didn't even skid. Everything stopped.

  Faros stared. "...Gods."

  He wasn't sure if he'd said it out loud.

  He looked down at the bodies—limp, folded like thrown cloaks—and felt something bitter rise in his throat. His hands trembled without consent. For a moment, a stupid familiar part of him thought: Maybe I should've stayed in my damn cell. However, he knew better—a cell here was just a waiting room for a noose.

  Viktor said nothing. He just kept walking.

  They descended a spiral staircase carved into worn stone, its edges chipped and uneven with age. At the bottom, a lone guard leaned against the wall beside a heavy door, idly scraping under his fingernail with the handle of a spoon.

  He didn't even look up for a second. "What now? One of the latches snap again? Those bottom locks—"

  Then he blinked. Then really looked.

  "Wait—wait, who the hell are you—?"

  His voice never finished the question. His neck jerked with a sharp pop, bone and muscle giving way all at once. He dropped without a cry.

  Faros grimaced.

  Viktor expression remained unchanged. His eyes were locked on the door, and with a flick of his fingers the bolts shrieked and twisted apart. The whole thing peeled away like wet parchment, slumping off the frame in one ruined piece.

  Faros blinked at the ruined slab. "Y'know," he offered dryly, "it was unlocked."

  Viktor paused. Slowly, and without expression, he turned to look at him. Nothing in his face shifted.

  Faros cleared his throat. "Right. Never mind."

  Inside, flickering torchlight cut across four cells. Arelos. Soren. Fenric. Jax. All slumped at different angles, bloodied but upright. Breathing. Alive.

  Arelos lifted red-ringed eyes first. "Viktor?" His voice came out hoarse. "Faros?"

  Soren blinked, his wrist halfway bound in torn cloth. "You're alive."

  "Took your sweet damn time, didn't you?" Fenric muttered. "We nearly started decorating."

  "Still got jokes, then?" Soren muttered.

  Viktor stepped through the middle of the room. He didn't break stride, didn't stop. One swift motion of his hand—and the cell doors buckled outward all at once, groaning like beasts before stilling.

  "Let's go," he said.

  Arelos was already halfway to his feet. "You heard him. Move. Weapons, gear—grab it. There."

  He nodded toward a table at the far wall—lit faintly by the torchlight. Packs, belts, and blades lay strewn like refuse.

  Soren hurried to Jax first. "Up," he whispered, looping Jax's arm over his shoulder.

  Jax didn't resist, but he didn't speak either.

  Fenric limped toward the table, dragging his hand across his ribs.

  It didn't take long. In less than a minute, boots were laced. Buckles cinched. Steel kissed palms.

  "Where to?" Arelos asked, turning to Viktor, dagger already drawn.

  Viktor lifted his eyes to Faros. "Be a good warden. Lead the way."

  Faros gave a sharp little nod. "This way. And don't dawdle."

  They climbed fast. At the top of the stairwell, the corridor tightened—stone walls close, shadows thick. Four armed men came barreling toward them, blades bared, shouts echoing off the stone.

  "Tight formation!" Arelos barked.

  But no formation was needed.

  Viktor lifted his arm. Four quick motions. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

  The hallway fell silent again.

  Four bodies lay on the floor, still twitching.

  Soren looked slightly ill. Fenric looked impressed.

  Faros didn't bother commenting this time. He just muttered, "Come on," and moved ahead.

  They continued. Corridor after corridor. The air thickened, heavier under the weight of what followed them. Or maybe what they left behind.

  When the narrow halls finally opened to a familiar courtyard, the gate they'd entered through just before still loomed ahead. It stood closed.

  But not unguarded.

  "Oy! You lot—you're not supposed to be here!" The same guard from before stepped forward, spear leveled, hands clenched like he meant to use it. "Escapees! We've got esc—!"

  The shout cracked in half as Viktor lifted his hand yet again. The guard dropped like a string-cut puppet, limbs curling beneath him.

  Fenric hocked a wad of spit next to the corpse. "Serves you right, you scum bastard."

  No one slowed. They pushed through the half-pried gate and into the crush of Onyra's eastern quarter. Cobbles underfoot. Voices in the distance. The city moved, oblivious—but the tension clung to their heels.

  Faros led them fast, ducking through tight alleys, skipping side streets, sliding past fruit carts and hung laundry like a shadow.

  They turned down a narrow lane and ducked beneath an old archway. The walls on either side leaned inward, cracked and sagging with age.

  Faros raised both hands. "Here. We can stop. They won't organize quick," he said, panting slightly. "Not after… that."

  They stood in silence.

  Breaths came hard.

  Weapons were gripped harder.

  "…So now what?" Fenric asked after a moment, looking at no one in particular.

  Viktor's reply came quiet. Steady. "I'm going to confront the arbiter who may be behind the murder of my family."

  Faros straightened sharply. "Nivario? Jorvan Nivario?"

  Viktor nodded. "Him."

  "You're mad," Faros said flatly. "You've just walked out of a courtyard of corpses, Viktor, and now you want to walk into an arbiter's estate? What next—duel a god while you're at it?"

  "I've made up my mind," came the reply.

  Arelos frowned. "I hate to agree with Faros. Viktor, you're powerful, more powerful than I think anyone of us could've imagined, but we have no idea how you stack up against an arbiter."

  "I'm not asking for opinions," Viktor said simply. "I'm going."

  Faros groaned and pressed a hand to his face. "Fine. Just don't say I didn't try to talk sense into you."

  "Duly noted. Now how about you tell me where I can find him?"

  Faros shook his head and let out a long breath. "You'll want the north quarter. Nivario's family has an estate there—the red-stone one on the hill. Not subtle, probably on purpose. Someone there'll know if he's inside."

  Soren turned to Faros. "And what will you do now?"

  "Me?" Faros offered a grim half-smile. "Going east. Eventually. But before that, Lycona. Need to clean out a few places before the hounds catch the scent."

  "You're leaving."

  "Yes, and I suggest you do the same."

  Silence fell once more.

  "For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Faros finally added. "This was never meant to happen… not like this."

  Soren reached forward first. Gripped his forearm. "I know."

  Arelos nodded curtly. "May the stars clear your road."

  Fenric scratched his hair. "Try not to die. We've got enough ghosts."

  Faros looked to Viktor last.

  "Vik—"

  Viktor gave the smallest nod. Nothing more. Just a cool, unreadable stare.

  Faros dropped his gaze.

  He turned without another word and disappeared down a side path.

  They watched him go.

  "So," Arelos muttered. "What now?"

  "I told you," Viktor said. "I'm going to Nivario."

  Nobody argued this time. What could they say?

  Arelos sighed through his nose. "You're a fool."

  "And?"

  "Well," he said, adjusting his blade. "I'm apparently an even bigger one, since I'll join you anyway."

  Soren shrugged once. "I guess that makes three of us."

  Fenric rubbed the back of his neck. "Wasn't planning on dying today, but whatever."

  They all glanced toward Jax.

  He stood with arms slack, eyes distant, expression hollow.

  He didn't speak.

  Didn't need to.

  When Viktor started walking, Jax followed.