Cale's first sensation was warmth. Not the aching heat of fever or magic backlash, but something softer—sunlight through leaves, the scent of moss, the crackle of a low fire.
His second sensation was pain.
A dull throb through his ribs. His arm, tightly bandaged. Dried blood on his sleeve.
He tried to sit up, winced, and looked around.
Trees. The forest. A small, makeshift camp. A bed of pine branches under him, cloak draped over his body.
His mind travelled back to the scene of him and Rosanna — the guards following them and Rosanna telling him to escape. He didn't know for how long he ran. But after a while, it seemed like his body had finally had enough. The only thing he remembered before he'd gone unconscious was the pain from his wound—and nothing else.
He looked down at his wound. Someone had taken care of him.
He blinked against the sun, head still swimming.
That's when he saw him.
A boy, maybe eleven or twelve, walked into the clearing carrying a bundle of firewood. Dirt smudged his cheeks. His tunic was too big for his frame. And his expression was as calm as if they'd simply met in a schoolyard.
Cale stared.
"You," he said.
The boy dropped the firewood and dusted off his hands. "You're awake."
"You're that kid. From the facility."
The boy nodded. "Iven."
Cale blinked again, disoriented. "Why are you here? Why didn't you run with Regan and the others?"
Iven tilted his head. "Because you didn't."
Cale frowned. "What—what does that even mean?"
"I saw you and the girl. You were arguing. So I didn't want to run away."
"…Are you a fucking idiot?"
Iven looked at him, deadpan. "That's a bad word."
Cale groaned and rubbed his temples. "Great. Just great."
Iven sat down across from him and pulled a small pouch from his belt. He handed Cale a few berries and some soft fruits he'd picked.
"Eat. You're weak."
Cale narrowed his eyes. "Why are you helping me?"
Iven shrugged. "You were bleeding. And I had bandages."
"That's it?"
"I also saw you glow."
Cale froze.
Iven chewed on a berry. "Back there. When you fought. Your wrist glowed. And you knocked a man down without touching him."
"…You saw that?"
"Yup."
Cale muttered something under his breath and bit into the fruit.
It was quiet for a while.
Then Iven said, "My home's not far. A town called Rabir. If we keep walking south, we'll hit it before nightfall."
Cale looked at him.
"You're from there?"
Iven nodded. "My family… they sent me away last year. For work."
Something in his voice cracked, but he didn't linger on it.
Cale exhaled. "Well, I guess I owe you now."
Iven shrugged again. "Not really. You owe the girl. She kept the guards off us."
Cale almost smiled.
He stood, slowly, testing his balance.
"I can walk."
Iven rose and picked up the pouch. "Then let's go."
They headed west — through the trees, toward the small town of Rabir.
And behind them, the forest grew quiet again.
______________
Rabir was asleep.
The cobblestone streets were mostly empty, save for the flickering lanterns that lined the main road. The fog had thinned, but the air remained heavy, like the town was holding its breath.
Cale limped beside Iven, his injuries flaring with each step.
"You sure your home's close?" he asked, glancing at the shuttered windows and quiet doors around them.
"Just a few more turns," Iven said without looking back.
They passed a group of silent figures hunched by a stairwell—drunks, maybe. Or something worse. Cale's eyes lingered a second too long before tearing away.
The alleys narrowed.
The cobbles became cracked stone.
Cale slowed.
Something crawled under his skin. A cold itch behind his ribs.
This wasn't right.
"Iven," he said carefully, "where exactly are we going?"
The boy didn't answer. Just turned another corner.
Cale followed—but slower now. Every instinct screamed.
They stopped in front of a wooden door, half-hinged, barely standing. A house long dead.
"This is it," Iven said quietly.
Cale stared at the house.
"Iven," he said again, voice tight, "this doesn't look like home."
The boy turned to him.
And smiled.
Not cruelly. Not sadly.
Just emptily.
"It is," he said.
Then opened the door.
Cale stepped inside—and froze.
There were no family portraits. No hearth. No warmth.
Just a cold, wide room.
And five armed men waiting in the shadows.
At the back, calmly brushing dust from her pristine coat—
Lady Emilia.
Cale staggered back.
"Iven—?" he rasped.
The boy didn't meet his eyes.
Emilia stepped forward, hands folded neatly in front of her.
"Clever, aren't you?" she said. "Smart enough to slip through one of our facilities. Smart enough to rally a rebellion, even. But not quite smart enough to see a leash when it's wrapped around your neck."
Her eyes gleamed in the low light.
"Iven was placed there two months ago. Quiet boy. Easy to overlook. Perfect ears."
Cale's stomach twisted.
"You used him."
"I trained him," Emilia corrected. "We knew someone might awaken eventually. Someone with... interesting potential. But imagine our surprise when you—a half-starved nobody—suddenly burst like wildfire."
Cale turned toward the door.
A guard was already blocking it.
Another stepped forward and punched him in the gut.
Cale crumpled, gasping.
"Be careful," Emilia said lightly. "We need him mostly intact."
The guards didn't care.
They dragged him forward, kicked his knees out from under him. One of them backhanded him hard enough to split his lip.
"You know how much hell we went through cleaning up after you?" one spat. "We lost half the stock. Weeks of work. All because you couldn't stay in line."
Another kick.
Cale saw stars.
Blood filled his mouth. His wrist pulsed—dim, weak, like Emis was far away or barely hanging on.
Iven stood by the door, unmoving.
Emilia crouched beside Cale and gently lifted his chin with one gloved finger.
"You're special," she said. "Veyrathi. That word mean anything to you?"
Cale stared at her, blood trickling from his mouth.
"You're mine now," she whispered.
Then stood, smooth as ever.
"Take him downstairs."
The guards yanked Cale to his feet.
His legs gave out, so they dragged him instead — his boots scraping over the rough floorboards, leaving streaks of blood behind.
He barely registered Emilia's voice in the background, humming some distant, aristocratic tune. His head lolled, vision blurry. Everything tilted sideways.
Until—
A flutter.
A whisper of feathers against glass.
His eyes cracked open.
There, perched on the windowsill, half-hidden in shadow, sat a raven.
Its eyes glowed red.
Cale's breath hitched.
He'd seen that bird before.
Back at the facility.
The raven tilted its head — a slow, precise movement. As if measuring him.
Then, in a flurry of motion—
The front door exploded inward.
Wood splintered. Smoke billowed.
And from the swirling dark stepped a man dressed in layers of shadowed silk and dark armor, the coat he wore split like wings behind him, boots cutting silent echoes into the floor.
He walked in like he owned the room.
And for a second, it felt like he did.
His silver hair fell in perfect waves down his back, threaded with thin cords of black and crimson. His eyes—an unnatural shade of deep, burning crimson—glanced over Cale, the guards, and finally landed on her.
Lady Emilia.
She took one calm step forward.
"Well," she said with a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes, "what an unexpected guest."
The man didn't respond.
His gloved hand adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with mechanical grace. Rings glinted gold across his knuckles. A massive pendant in the shape of a stylized eye and cross swung gently from his neck.
His voice, when it came, was soft. Cool.
"I believe you have something that doesn't belong to you."
A flicker of surprise passed over Emilia's face.
Then recognition.
"…So the rumors were true," she said. "I thought you'd gone silent after the last purge. They said you went underground. Became myth."
"I prefer 'selectively present.'"
One of the guards moved—
And the raven shrieked.
The man didn't blink.
In a heartbeat, the guard's throat was cut.
The others reached for their weapons—but the raven swooped, and the noble drew a curved dagger from beneath his coat in one smooth motion.
"I wouldn't," he said simply, blood dripping from the blade.
Emilia raised both hands, mock-gently. "Let's not make a mess."
"You already have."
She narrowed her eyes. "This boy is Veyrathi. That's not something you walk away from. You know the orders. Even you answer to the Kingdom's codes."
"No," he said, stepping closer, "I answer to the truth. And right now, you're standing in its way."
Their gazes locked—two predators sizing each other up.
Then he looked at Cale.
And for the first time, the faintest glimmer of something warmer passed across his face.
Recognition.
Maybe even… respect.
He turned back to Emilia.
"You'll lose this one," he said. "So step aside, or I'll make you."