When they had pulled him from the well, he had looked like a demon—black with mud from head to toe, only his sharp gray eyes visible through the grime. Yet it wasn’t the filth or the stench that made them keep their distance. Fifteen days trapped in the dark, surviving without food or water, forced to sustain himself through his Scheme—mending torn flesh and staving off death with its power—had left a mark on him, one that even others could sense now. The air around him seemed to hum with a faint, unnatural pulse, like a current waiting to arc.

  No one had rushed to embrace him or offered words of comfort. Instead, they had loaded him into a Protectorate transport with the same cautious efficiency as handling volatile cargo. The ride had been long and silent. The soldiers did not speak to him, nor did they watch him for long—just enough to ensure he still breathed. It wasn’t fear. It was something colder, something closer to avoidance. And he couldn’t blame them. Sitting beside him for the long ride back to Hawk’s Nest would have been... unwise. Still, he found himself smirking faintly at the thought—at least they’d shown the courtesy to treat him as a man rather than a distorted beast in shackles, prodded forward by pikes.

  At last, he was home.

  He peeled the stained coat from his shoulders, feeling how his body clung to it as if reluctant to let go. His limbs were heavier than they should have been. The hunger was dull now, not sharp like it had been in the Well—but it was there, lingering in his bones, sinking into him as if it would never truly leave. His limbs felt leaden, his thoughts half-fogged as he stepped into the bathroom. Lavender and rosemary scented the air, the faint rippling of water lulling him into stillness. The spacious tub, with its marble walls and brass taps adorned with delicate carvings, was already filled with steaming water. He allowed himself to sink into the silence, into the warmth. The heat should have been enough to chase away the cold that had settled deep inside him. It wasn’t. His muscles ached, his body screamed for rest, but beneath it all, the circuit still hummed—not in pain, not in hunger, but in something worse. Something waiting.

  Hoping to dispel the lingering fatigue, he retrieved a crystal from a case resembling a cigarette holder. His fingers closed around the slender, pearlescent stone—cool to the touch, its faint glow reflecting against his skin. As he enclosed it in his palm, warmth seeped into his body, steady and familiar, like the first sip of hot tea on a cold morning. The neutral charge awakened the dormant scheme within, spreading through his core with a steady pulse. Gradually, the crystal dissolved, thinning like ice melting from human touch, fading where his grip pressed the hardest.

  Yet the quiet hum of the circuit carved into his body persisted—restless, hungry. The lingering heaviness in his limbs reminded him that he had not fully healed. Not enough to feel whole, but enough to no longer pose a danger to those nearby.

  Standard protocol required every battle officer to carry a cartridge belt stocked with charged crystals—fuel for combat spells or emergency circuits. But as the Left Falconet, Morveyn had never worn one. His father had strictly ensured that his role kept him far from frontline combat, making the absence of a cartridge belt more than a choice—it was an unspoken rule, a symbol of his enforced distance. Crystals melted in his hands—the ever-dormant scheme coiled within his core siphoning energy little by little. This peculiarity made Morveyn wary of activating schemes unnecessarily. Despite his fascination with artifact crafting, the practical use of crystals remained a double-edged sword.

  “Never touch charged crystals with bare hands.” That lesson had been drilled into him through trial and error during his first years at the academy. Neutral crystals provided energy in controlled measures, their power absorbed smoothly since it had no specific direction. Charged ones, however, were designed to channel energy toward a single point. Upon activation, they released power indiscriminately, their potency surging to fulfill their purpose. The sensation could range from a sharp electric shock to a searing burn, disrupting the delicate balance within his body and triggering a cycle of internal regeneration—an endless loop, like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining momentum with each turn.

  For this reason, artificery—once a passion—had never become Morveyn’s strength. Circuits he constructed would often falter, their precision compromised by the inevitable siphoning of energy beyond his control.

  Dain, ever watchful, rarely left Morveyn’s side. His relief was evident, though tinged with a quiet frustration that clung to his every gesture. The boy had nearly burst into tears when Morveyn, still half-frozen and barely coherent, had refused his help in undressing or washing. The memory left a pang of guilt in Morveyn’s chest—not because he minded Dain’s fussing, but because he knew how much the boy had endured during those two weeks of waiting, hoping, and fearing the worst.

  Now, Dain busied himself with arranging several bouquets of flowers around the room, setting each vase down with deliberate care, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. Morveyn almost expected him to start muttering, as he usually did, about how spending hours in the bath would eventually turn him into a fish. The boy's habit of voicing his opinions—often without regard for propriety—would have earned him harsh reprimands in any other household. Yet here, it was a familiar nuisance that Morveyn had grown oddly fond of. But this time, Dain held his tongue, and that rare restraint made Morveyn realize just how much the boy had worried.

  The maids, sentimental as always, assumed the flowers were gifts from well-wishers celebrating his miraculous return. In truth, Morveyn had ordered them himself—needed them as a test, a reassurance that the lingering hum beneath his skin wouldn’t wilt petals or wither leaves.

  Despite his brooding, Dain performed his duties with practiced diligence. He delivered updates on the letters Morveyn had sent before his sentence, each report clipped and businesslike. Yet beneath the surface, his sulking felt like a silent protest—as if Morveyn had chosen to throw himself into that pit just to see how far he could push the boy’s patience.

  For years, Morveyn had navigated the treacherous world of aristocratic intrigue, carefully weaving a network of influence strong enough to elude his father’s watchful eye. Now, at last, he had gathered enough threads to pull the right strings.

  Yet despite his efforts, he had never uncovered anything concrete about Beorn—nothing that could help him find the boy after his disappearance following graduation. One thing was certain: Beorn had never joined the Protectorium. Had he done so, Morveyn would have found him long ago. A part of him had always clung to the faint hope of such an encounter.

  Tracking down his old patron, however, had proven far more difficult. Either the lyceum’s archivist had been astoundingly negligent—failing to record the history of an anonymous street rat who had somehow clawed his way through the academy—or someone had deliberately erased those records, as if to bury Beorn’s existence.

  After months of fruitless searching, Morveyn had finally located the former archivist. And now, anticipation coiled tightly within him, eager to pry the truth from the man’s lips.

  Meanwhile, the response to his inquiry regarding Baron Neergaffen had been brief and vague—yet undeniably revealing. Strangely, both leads pointed to the same destination.

  The former archivist, for reasons unknown, had been transferred from a prestigious post in the capital to the jurisdiction of Te Aroed—a wealthy province renowned for its vineyards and textiles. Yet the town in question was little more than a backwater compared to Teak-An. Such a relocation was rarely voluntary.

  As for Neergaffen, the baron’s last known dealings also led to Te Aroed. Though the exact recipients of his suspicious monetary transfers remained unknown, the trail was clear. And now, following the so-called “tragedy” happened to Loran of Acrass, baron Neergaffen had retreated to Monselu—allegedly to recover.

  Morveyn exhaled slowly, forcing his heartbeat to steady. The cold logic that guided him now had no room for hesitation—but somewhere beneath the carefully constructed mask, a flicker of something raw twisted through his chest. He clenched his fists until the knuckles whitened, pushing it down until nothing remained but the calm, calculating exterior that the world expected.

  Too many paths converged at the same point. Too many coincidences to dismiss—especially when Menno’s latest command aligned with those very threads. Just one day after Morveyn had clawed his way back from the unspoken death sentense, his father had ordered him to Te Aroed. The timing was too perfect. Too precise. And whatever awaited him there could pose a threat—not only to himself but to her…

  Menno had been true to his word, granting Morveyn precisely one day of rest.

  The next morning, Morveyn boarded the train bound for Te Aroed, unease coiling tightly within him as the landscape blurred past the window, each mile pulling him closer to answers he could no longer ignore.

  It seemed that while he had been festering in a pit of filth and death, the city had been captivated by a far more uplifting story. For the past ten days, all anyone could talk about was the miracle unfolding in the province.

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  In troubled times, people clung to miracles like drowning men to driftwood. It was only natural. As a falconet, Morveyn had seen it before—village lunatics proclaiming themselves as the voice of the Sleeping One, pagan cults spreading like wildfire in forgotten corners of the Confederation.

  After catastrophes like Ao Teyen, people needed something, anything, to restore their faith in balance.

  And what better balm for despair than a saint? After all, gods could be both cruel and merciful.

  What Morveyn truly did not expect was that it would not only be the common folk but also the aristocracy flocking in search of magical solace. He wasn't surprised that after the rapid spread of hellish powder in the upper echelons of society, distortion would inevitably sprout somewhere. Inhaling pulverized crystals, essentially recreating the same poisonous haze that devours entire regions, and hoping that the distortion would bypass them—what a pinnacle of naivety.

  In secret, Morveyn had hoped this would happen much sooner, and some distorted noble would go mad and cause havoc. That would force the Crimson Wolves to officially turn their attention to what was happening in the elite dens of the capital. But he waited so long that he eventually decided to test his own strength. However, his expectations and fears were not far from the truth. Judging by how often he caught a greenish haze only visible to him as he passed through the city's streets, the hellish powder had begun descending from elite salons into more modest dens. How much time would pass before the dense green fog enveloped and consumed the entire Teak An?

  This region, where refugees from the devastated lands sought refuge, was the most reliable and prosperous—what would happen if it too was engulfed by distortion? Not from the side where all sorts of filth usually broke through, but from within?

  These thoughts and the Protectorate leader’s stubborn inaction, turning a blind eye to "secular" problems, caused Morveyn to feel a foul lump of anxiety and sticky fear lodged deep in his throat.

  And then, in one of the wealthiest regions, out of nowhere, appears a maiden who heals physical and spiritual wounds and claims not only to see the distortion but also to cleanse those who come to her. Aristocrats from all regions were already rushing to take advantage of the famous hospitality of Duke Geddacht. But what about the Duke himself? How could he have allowed such a thing in his own castle, encouraging such heresy? There was much to be unraveled here.

  Morveyn had to use his position as a recent prisoner and present himself before the so-called "holy maiden" in search of relief from his suffering. It would be easy for those around to believe that a sickly young man would seek to restore his health in such an unconventional way. Among the rest of the audience, he wouldn't particularly stand out either in status or nobility. Moreover, the Protectorate had not yet responded to what was happening, and it seemed everyone had convinced themselves that all this was happening with the Council of the Tree's approval.

  The train glided smoothly along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter against the rails a soothing counterpoint to the luxurious silence of the private carriage. Morveyn leaned back in his chair, sinking into the plush velvet upholstery with a satisfied sigh. Beyond the window, rolling hills and dense forests blurred into a serene green mosaic—a world that seemed laughably distant from the damp, suffocating pit he had recently escaped.

  Of course, he could have taken an official Protectorium transport, riding in his own assigned mobil, or even saving time by using an omnicar. But that would have meant jumping straight back into duty, and after what he had endured, he wasn’t about to grant his father the satisfaction of seeing him march off like an obedient hound.

  No, he wanted time. Time to let his body fully recover, time to gather his thoughts and prepare for whatever awaited him in Te Aroed. The slower, more comfortable journey served his purposes well. And if his father fumed over the unnecessary delay, all the better.

  But the real victory was forcing the Protectorium’s logistics department to finance his personal affairs. A private, reserved carriage, complete with velvet seats, warm meals, and a view far more agreeable than the inside of a cell—it was, in his opinion, the very least they owed him.

  He stretched lazily, letting the weight of the past days melt away. The fact that he had managed to secure the entire compartment for himself? Just a cherry on top.

  Well… not entirely for himself.

  Daine sat opposite Morveyn, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, peeling the skin off an apple with practiced ease. The thin strips curled in his fingers as he worked, his expression caught somewhere between idle amusement and quiet determination.

  After everything that had happened, Daine seemed unwilling to leave Morveyn’s side. He had never accompanied him on work assignments before, but recent events had shifted something between them. Daine made it clear that he wouldn’t let Morveyn face the next ordeal alone. If necessary, he would cling to his master’s leg like a stubborn leech and drag along until they reached Monselu. His presence, though persistent to the point of exasperation, was a comfort Morveyn persistent and unyielding, was a reminder that not everyone needed to be kept at arm’s length. Loyalty like that was rare—and Morveyn intended to keep it close.

  Unlike most valets, Daine had little patience for stiff propriety. His duties revolved around practical upkeep: ensuring Morveyn’s clothes were immaculate, his corset laced properly, and that he ate enough to keep from withering away—even if it meant pestering him with peeled fruit. Morveyn’s appetite had never been strong, dulled by the constant pressure of the corset and the weight of the stones within him, but Daine, relentless as a terrier, made it his mission to see that his master didn’t starve.

  Morveyn had to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that the boy’s persistence might prove useful. Despite his mischief, Daine had proven resourceful and capable of more than just polishing boots and buttoning jackets. Having someone reliable—albeit relentlessly cheeky—at his side might not be the worst idea. Still, Daine had taken Morveyn’s uncharacteristic compliance with suspicious ease. Buoyed by this rare victory, he had insisted that, since their destination was the duke’s residence—a hub of social life—they should pack accordingly. When Morveyn offered no protest, Daine had promptly overcompensated, cramming two massive suitcases with outfits for every imaginable occasion. His fretful energy betrayed his thoughts: clearly, he suspected that Morveyn’s uncharacteristic compliance meant something was seriously wrong.

  Now, as Daine sat peeling the apple with exaggerated concentration, his gaze flicked up occasionally, as if ensuring Morveyn hadn’t dissolved into thin air. The corners of Morveyn’s mouth twitched in amusement. Despite the boy’s occasional bouts of sulkiness—brought on by worry more than anything else—there was something endearing about his care. The faintest hint of a smirk touched Morveyn’s lips as he watched Daine fuss over him with the vigilance of a mother hen guarding her last chick. The image was absurd, but the warmth behind it lingered nonetheless.

  Morveyn allowed himself to relax for the first time in days. He ran a hand through his hair, relishing in the smooth silkiness of it. Such a simple thing, and yet it felt like a small victory. He had spent two weeks in a place where he had been reduced to something less than human—now, every bit of normalcy felt like an indulgence.

  The compartment itself was opulent, a testament to exquisite taste. Rich mahogany paneling adorned the walls, intricately carved patterns told stories of fertile lands and legendary creatures—prosperity and cleansing of blight. A soft, golden light emanated from elegant lamps, bathing the space in a warm glow. A crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and delicate glasses clinked slightly on a polished table next to a selection of rare books and a bowl of fresh fruit. Every detail spoke of comfort and luxury, a world far removed from the cold, damp walls of his confinement.

  He sighed and shut his eyes, letting the soft rocking of the train lull him into drowsiness. If he could help it, he would spend the entire journey asleep. A sharp knock at the compartment door dragged him from his peace.

  Daine didn’t even look up. “That’ll be your tea, milord,” he said, carefully slicing the apple into thin segments and arranging them neatly on a small dish beside Morveyn.

  Morveyn exhaled through his nose and stretched out a hand. “I froze my ass off for the glory of the Confederation, and here you sit, peeling apples like you’ve all the time in the world. Maybe I should have you flogged for educational purposes,” he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.

  Daine placed the last slice onto the dish with precision. “Apologies, milord,” he replied with a respectful bow of the head, though the faintest flicker of amusement lingered in his eyes—enough to skirt the line between obedience and impudence.

  “Then be useful and fetch the damned tea,” Morveyn added dryly.

  Daine rose immediately, smoothing his tunic as he crossed to the door. He opened it just as a young valet in crisp livery stepped inside, balancing a silver tray.

  “Your tea, sir,” the boy said nervously, setting the tray down with care.

  Morveyn nodded in acknowledgment as he reached for the cup. “Thank you, Martin.” The fragrant steam eased the slight discomfort in his throat—a lingering reminder of breathing in too much cold air. The cursed crystals embedded in his skin could heal flesh and bone, but they offered no remedy for such mundane irritations.

  Martin blushed faintly and backed out of the room with a quick bow. Morveyn paid him no mind.

  Daine, however, noted the boy’s reaction with a hint of amusement. “The lad seems a bit smitten,” he remarked as he resumed his seat.

  “And why should that concern me?” Morveyn asked, sipping his tea.

  “Well, milord, it might matter when he drops your tea in your lap out of sheer nerves next time,” Daine replied with a half-smile. His grin widened slightly as Morveyn absentmindedly took a slice of apple from the dish and popped it into his mouth.

  “Jealous of a serving boy now, are we?” Morveyn asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “After nearly losing my wits worrying over you, I think I’ve earned the right to a little jealousy, wouldn’t you say? Surely, after all that fretting, you could grant me that much,” Daine replied, his tone just shy of playful, though the earnestness beneath it was unmistakable.

  Morveyn let the remark pass without comment, closing his eyes once more, hoping to drift off.

  His respite lasted only minutes before a commotion in the corridor shattered the quiet.

  Raised voices. The sharp clip of heels striking tile. The unmistakable, high-pitched indignation of someone unused to being refused.

  Daine tilted his head toward the noise with a faint sigh. “Sounds like someone’s lost their sense of decorum.”

  Morveyn cracked an eye open. “If you’re so curious, go and handle it.”

  Daine tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with restrained humor. “Far be it from me to overstep, milord. I’d wager that what’s needed is a touch of your esteemed authority. After all, when it comes to settling such matters, it must feel rather like taking candy from children.”

  The noise outside swelled, punctuated by the clatter of parasol against tile. Morveyn exhaled through his nose and rose with deliberate grace, drawing his black brocade robe snugly around his shoulders. Whatever awaited beyond the door, he doubted it would prove half as amusing as Daine seemed to think.