Conryn made his way to the prison, his steps measured, deliberate. Each footfall crushed brittle blades of grass beneath his weight, the sound sharp in the hush of the night. The dry earth, cracked from days without rain, did little to soften his tread as he moved through Shadeside, weaving between the dilapidated buildings and forgotten alleyways that the rest of the village preferred to ignore.

  Here, the air was thick, carrying the faint, acrid scent of damp wood and old stone. The towering structures of Shadeside loomed like skeletal remains of an ancient beast, their wooden frames warped with age, leaning upon one another like old men who could no longer stand unaided. Crude lanterns flickered dimly, their oil near spent, casting long, wavering shadows against the dirt paths. The prison lay ahead, a hulking silhouette at the village's edge, a place where few ever went willingly.

  The moonlight caught the jagged edges of his features as he walked, painting his face in alternating bands of silver and shadow. Without thinking, his fingers rose to his cheek, tracing the thin scar that ran diagonally across it—a wound still fresh, not just in flesh, but in memory. A mark left behind by the lizard boy, a creature that had been born mere weeks prior yet had nearly ended his life.

  There was another scar, one across his chest, hidden beneath his tunic and armor. That one he could ignore. That one he could pretend did not exist. But the scar on his face? That was different. This one was exposed for all to see, etched into his very skin like a brand of fate—a constant reminder that he had come face-to-face with something beyond himself, something monstrous, something that had torn apart the very foundation of what he believed to be true.

  In the deep hours of the night, when sleep was a distant mercy, the memories returned. Flashing images burned into his mind like red-hot embers.

  A behemoth of a reptile, its scales black as obsidian, its slit-pupiled eyes glowing like molten rubies in the darkness. It did not simply chase him—it hunted him, moved with a single-minded focus that went beyond mere pursuit. No matter where he ran, no matter how far he fled, it would find him.

  If he took to the trees, it would scale them with effortless ease, claws sinking into bark like steel through flesh.

  If he dove into the rivers, the current dragging him deeper, it would wade through the waters unbothered, as if the elements themselves bent to its will.

  If he buried himself beneath the earth, clawing his way between ancient stones, slipping into the deepest cracks he could find, it would follow—its presence bleeding into the very marrow of the world around him.

  There was no escape. There never had been.

  Conryn knew fear. He had grown up in the village, after all. He had learned its scent, its taste, its whispered warnings carried on the iron winds that howled through Wolvenblade. He had faced beasts lurking beyond the walls, seen men torn apart by parasites that wormed beneath their skin, weathered the rage of meteor storms that burned everything in their wake. He had known fear since he was but a boy, had swallowed it down like bitter medicine, had learned to master it, shape it into something useful.

  But this was not fear.

  This was something far worse.

  Terror. A primal, unshakable thing. A force that stripped him bare, reducing him to something small and vulnerable, something that had no place in a world where survival was the only law.

  And it disgusted him.

  His father had trained him never to feel this way. Never to succumb. Never to let his knees buckle, never to let his breath quicken, never to let his mind fall into that suffocating abyss where men lost their strength before they even lifted their weapons. Fear was an enemy that could be conquered. It was an obstacle to overcome, a beast that could be tamed.

  But terror?

  Terror was something that wrapped around his throat like a noose, something that dug into his bones and refused to let go. As his son he should never feel terror, his father would repeat again and again.

  Yet even so this fear this terror—it was something he could not forget.

  Conryn turned his attention to his surroundings. The night in Shadeside carried a thick, oppressive weight, a stagnant atmosphere of unspoken rules and silent threats. The air smelled of herbs not the good kind, sweat, and the acrid scent of burning tallow from the crude lanterns that flickered against the narrow, winding paths.

  Then the sound of a scuffle ahead drew Conryn's attention.

  "Just… give me the Fenrir-damned herbs!!"

  A sickly-looking man, gaunt and desperate, struggled against the iron grip of a larger, more muscular figure. His breath rattled in his chest like loose stones caught in a storm. He clawed at the brute's arms, trying to break free, but the moment he lunged forward, his face was unceremoniously driven into the packed dirt.

  The larger man shifted his weight, planting a knee onto the smaller man's throat, his rough hand tightening its hold. "You've got a big fuckin' head if you think you can force one outta us, herbhead," he sneered, voice low and thick with amusement. His breath stank of fermented barley and roasted meat. "Our business is done. Fuck around in these parts, and we'll disappear ya."

  With a sharp twist, he yanked his knee away and drove his boot into the sickly man's ribs. A hollow, wet sound echoed through the street, followed by a sharp, gasping wheeze as the man curled inward, clutching his stomach. The larger man gave one last disdainful glare before disappearing into the tangle of alleyways, his form swallowed by the ever-present darkness.

  Conryn snorted at the display but did not stop. He had no reason to. The weak got swallowed whole in Shadeside. That was the nature of things here it had little to do with him. He stepped around the curled-up figure on the ground, barely sparing the man a glance, and continued down the dirt-beaten path.

  Shadeside was a paradox of freedom and restraint, a place where desperation and opportunity coiled together like a snake poised to strike its own tail. It was a sinkhole that sucked out the poison from the rest of the village, a place for those too wretched, too reckless, or too burdened with debt to live anywhere else. If you couldn't make enough sun coins, if your harvest had failed, if your craft produced too few goods to meet your tax dues, you would find yourself here—banished not by law, but by the slow, grinding weight of necessity.

  Not that it happened often. Most of the village upheld their standing well enough.

  Still, Shadeside thrived on its own rules. Bartering and coin alike dictated survival, and sun coins—the true currency of Wolvenblade—kept the cycle moving.

  Sun coins were not merely minted tokens of trust like lesser currencies in foreign lands. They held real, tangible value. Crafted from the carapace of Nakug insects—rare creatures whose hardened shells retained numen like a reservoir even after death—each sun coin carried within it a trace of stored power. They were not simply currency; they were a resource. A warrior could absorb the lingering numen from a coin in desperate moments, and a craftsman could use them to fuel intricate carvings of warding and reinforcement.

  The coins were durable, their surfaces etched with intricate symbols that made counterfeiting near impossible. And because their worth extended beyond simple trade, they could be exchanged outside the village as well, useful even in dealings with outsiders. Other villages had their own versions of sun coins, though direct trade in goods was more common between settlements.

  Conryn ran a finger over the few coins tucked into his belt, feeling the faint, tingling hum of stored numen within them. Shadeside operated on its own rhythm, its own unwritten laws. A man could starve here as easily as he could flourish, depending on how well he played the game.

  His mind turned away from idle thoughts as the looming silhouette of a building came into view, a grim monolith against the moonlit skyline. This was a place set apart from the rest of Wolvenblade, a place reserved for only the minor criminals who had fallen foul of the village's laws—or, more rarely, for the worst of the worst. The prison of Wolvenblade.

  Unlike the homes and halls of the village, which were built from the native blue-green wood of the spiral-branched trees, the prison was a fortress of stone and Ironwood. The structure stood cold and unyielding, its walls marked with the faint glow of embedded wards, shimmering ever so slightly in the night air. Even with his minor level of cultivation, Conryn could see them, their protective runes woven into the very foundation. They pulsed like a slumbering beast beneath the stone, thrumming with power, a silent warning to all who dared approach.

  Guards moved along the outer perimeter in perfect synchronization, their shifts seamless, never leaving so much as a sliver of unguarded space. Their armor was worn but well-kept, crafted from hardened beast leather reinforced with carapace and wood plating. They carried weapons suited to their strengths—long spears for reach, curved bone sabers for close quarters, and in the hands of a select few, ward-inscribed crossbows meant to deal with those of higher cultivation. Made well because of the Satyr as of late. Their presence was not just for show.

  Ahead of him, the main gate loomed, solid and unmoving, barred with thick bands of iron and reinforced with carvings of protective wards and between them a symbol of Fenrir. Two massive sentries flanked its entrance, their broad-shouldered forms nearly as tall as Garran, their dark eyes sharp and unyielding. Even in the dim light, the lines of their hardened faces were visible—men who had spent their lives watching, waiting, and ensuring that no one entered or exited without the proper authority.

  A solemn place.

  Conryn moved forward, his boots crunching against the dirt-packed ground. The cold weight of expectation hung thick in the air, heavier than the night itself. One of the sentries turned to him, his brows furrowing, deep lines forming on his forehead as his gaze swept over Conryn with quiet scrutiny.

  "Authentication and reason for visit?" the man asked. His voice was like shattering stone, deep and harsh, as if it had been ground down over years of barking orders.

  Conryn reached into his cloak, producing a plaque and holding it up to the flickering torchlight. It was the mark of an elder's son—a status that would soon be stripped from him. The sentry took it with a slow, deliberate motion, turning it over in his calloused hands. His eyes flickered with recognition, and after a moment, his gaze returned to Conryn.

  "You're that guy's son, huh?" The sentry's lips curled slightly, though there was no amusement in it, only the weight of understanding, of knowing exactly what it meant to be tied to a disgraced name. "Or one of 'em, I suppose. Must be shit, eh?"

  Conryn's expression barely shifted, a grimace flickering at the edge of his mouth before vanishing into the cold detachment of his face. He said nothing. He had learned long ago that words were wasted on men such as this. People would always try to exert their power on another when they could. He had done the same.

  The sentry turned with a grunt, shouting a command over his shoulder. Heavy chains rattled, iron groaned, and slowly, the gates of the prison creaked open. A gust of stale air drifted out from within, tinged with sweat, iron, and the musty dampness of stone untouched by sunlight.

  Conryn stepped forward, the Aspar floating lazily around him, their bioluminescent bodies flickering like dying embers in the still night. He ascended the wooden stairs leading to the entrance, the faint creak beneath his weight swallowed by the unnatural silence of the place.

  The doors before him were old, yet well-maintained, their reinforced wooden surface painted with the image of the courthouse. A reminder, perhaps, that justice did not end at the gavel's fall—it followed men even here, beyond the ruling chamber, into the very heart of their confinement.

  He rapped his knuckles against the heavy wood twice.

  The door opened a moment later, revealing a guard standing in the dimly lit interior. The man was broad-shouldered but not overly imposing, his blonde hair a mess of half-tamed waves. His brown eyes, dulled by routine, flicked to Conryn with little interest.

  "Who are you here to see?" he asked, his voice carrying the weariness of a man who had long since stopped caring about the names that passed through these halls.

  Conryn met his gaze, his voice steady, deliberate.

  "Elder Hathor," he said, before correcting himself. "Or perhaps just Hathor now."

  The man said nothing more and merely nodded in response before stepping aside, allowing Conryn passage into the prison's cold, oppressive depths. The heavy wooden door groaned shut behind him, sealing the outside world away with a finality that felt almost suffocating.

  Inside, the air was thick with a stale dampness, carrying the scent of unwashed bodies, old blood, and the lingering traces of something metallic and acrid, blood it was always blood. Torchlight flickered dimly along the wood walls, casting jagged shadows that danced like restless mischievous fey against the damp, uneven surfaces. Each step forward was met with the faintest echo, swallowed quickly by the dense silence that pervaded the space.

  But more than the stench, more than the shadows, more than the dampness that clung to the walls, what struck Conryn the most was the absence of numen.

  It was subtle at first—like a missing note in a melody, a faint hollowness in the air that he couldn't quite place. But as he stepped deeper into the corridor, the sensation became undeniable. The numen, the very energy that he had felt coursing through everything his entire life, the force that gave the world its hum of vitality, was nearly nonexistent here.

  He had read about this in school, of course. It was a well-known practice across villages, a necessary security measure. Just as formations and wards could be crafted to attract numen, there existed those that repelled it, expelling ambient numen and leaving nothing behind but a deadened void. It was a method employed not only by Wolvenblade but by countless other settlements across the land.

  For what kind of fool would allow cultivators to increase their strength while held prisoner?

  It would defeat the very purpose of their confinement.

  Still, knowing the reasoning behind it did little to lessen the unease curling in his gut. The absence of numen was like stepping into a room where all sound had been sucked away—a deafening silence that pressed against his very being, unnatural in a way that made his skin crawl. His fingers flexed involuntarily, as if expecting to grasp at something unseen, but there was nothing to hold on to.

  His gaze drifted across the cells lining the corridor, and his expression darkened.

  The men behind the ironwood bars were not all the same.

  Some were monstrous in appearance—scarred and savage, their bodies marred with old wounds and crude tattoos that told the stories of violent lives. They bared their teeth like cornered beasts, slamming against the bars with a fury that sent the metal rattling. When a guard passed too close, one lunged with enough force to make the man flinch, his feral eyes burning with unchecked hatred.

  Others were quieter, more calculating. Their expressions were unreadable, their gazes slow and deliberate as they studied every detail around them—the placement of the guards, the weight of their bonds, the subtle flaws in the prison's construction. These men did not waste their breath on rage. They were patient, like spiders waiting in the dark for the perfect moment to strike.

  And then there were those who had already given up.

  They lay motionless on the cold wooden platforms and stone floors, their bodies curled inward, their breathing slow, almost imperceptible. Their eyes, when they opened, held only the faintest flickers of thought before dulling once more, sinking back into the nothingness that had claimed them.

  Some were afraid.

  Some were angry.

  Some had long since resigned themselves to whatever fate awaited them.

  The weight of their collective presence pressed against Conryn's shoulders, a silent force that made his every step feel heavier.

  A grimace pulled at his lips.

  He did not like this place.

  His mind drifted to his father as he walked the dimly lit corridors, the torches flickering in their sconces, casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to stretch toward him like clawed fingers. The rhythmic tap of his boots against the cold stone floor echoed through the empty halls, each step carrying the weight of memories long buried, now stirring to the surface like restless specters.

  Hathor the Elder.

  A name that once commanded fear and respect in equal measure. A man whose very presence had loomed over Conryn's childhood like a stormcloud, vast and oppressive, always threatening to break. Hathor had never been a kind man, nor a pure soul. Conryn had known that for as long as he could remember. The village knew it too, even if they did not speak of it aloud.

  But for all his father's ruthlessness, for all the iron-fisted control he had exerted over his life and the lives of others, Conryn could not deny one thing:

  He had loved his children.

  Not in the way other fathers did. Not with gentle words or warmth, not with open affection or quiet sacrifice. No, Hathor's love was a thing of steel and fire—sharp, unyielding, forged in the crucible of his ambitions. His children were his legacy, his proof that his bloodline would endure, that his name would echo through the ages.

  But their mothers?

  They were something else entirely.

  To him, the women who had borne his children were conquests, nothing more. Tools to satisfy his lust. Symbols of power, of dominance, of a lineage stretching toward some distant throne only he could see. He had never mistreated them physically, never laid a hand on them in violence, but that did not mean he had cared. He did not love them. Not truly.

  They had stayed within his household, their presence acknowledged but never cherished. Their existence was an afterthought, a necessity. They were there because they had been useful, because they had given him sons and daughters who would carry his name into the future.

  But his children?

  They were different.

  Conryn had seen it, had felt it in every lesson, in every word spoken with the weight of expectation pressing against his young shoulders. His father had given them resources, had celebrated their milestones and birthdays with the same fervor he dedicated to his own victories. He had trained them personally when time allowed, guiding them with a hand that was firm but never cruel.

  And he had taught them—oh, how he had taught them.

  "Pride and power," his father had said, again and again, a mantra carved into the marrow of his bones. "You are my legacy. And legacies do not kneel. They claw, they fight, they take. They conquer."

  It was not merely a lesson. It was law.

  There had been a time—faint now, distant like a dream half-remembered—when Conryn had not thought that way. A time when his mother's presence had softened the edges of the world, when he had seen things through the eyes of a child and not an heir. But that time had ended the day she had died.

  Her passing had changed everything.

  And in the void she left behind, there was only Hathor.

  So he had become like him.

  Molded himself in his father's image, sharpened the edges of his soul to match the blade that had been pressed against his throat from the moment he had been old enough to understand what was expected of him. Maybe it had been survival instinct. Maybe it had been something else. But even after all that he did not think the man was capable of which he was accused.

  Conryn was not a good person. He had accepted that long ago. He had done things—some necessary, some not mostly not—things that would stain his hands long after he was gone. He had hurt people, manipulated, schemed, fought in ways that did not always require fists. He was not naive enough to believe in his own innocence. And in fact many times he thought he didn't need to be. Did one need to be a saint in order to live? He had grown up in his own way and had his own way of living. This world was not one for the weak. But even so.

  Doing that to a child?

  His stomach churned at the thought. His father had done many things, had walked paths that most men would not dare, but this? He did not think his father was that depraved. No matter how hardened, no matter how ruthless the years had made him, the man had once been a good father. Had once loved his children in his own way, as warped and rigid as that love may have been. It was not the kind of love that came with gentle hands or soft words—it was a love of expectation, of demand, of pride and legacy. But it was still love.

  And now they were saying he had done this.

  There had to be more to it. There simply had to be.

  His thoughts were severed by a voice cutting through the damp air beside him.

  "We're here."

  It took him a moment to register the words, the weight of his mind dragging him down so deeply that it had dulled his awareness. Conryn blinked, then looked up. He had failed to fully take in his surroundings.

  At some point, they had descended several flights of stairs, the air thickening with stagnant moisture the deeper they went. The lower levels of the prison were carved from more stone than wood, the walls dark with patches of moss and damp streaks where water had seeped in from above. The faint, almost basalmic scent of mildew clung to everything, mixing with the underlying musk of unwashed bodies. The torches that lined the corridor flickered weakly, their flames barely holding on as if the very walls sought to smother them.

  There was little to no ventilation. The air sat heavy and unmoving. It had the distinct weight of a place that had long since forgotten the sky.

  A roach scurried from one corner to another, its many legs clicking softly against the stone. Conryn wrinkled his nose but did not flinch. Shadeside had its share of vermin, but down here, among the worst of the worst, it was more than a mere pest—it was a creature feasting on the scraps of the damned.

  The corridor turned sharply, leading to a reinforced section of the prison. The bars here were thicker than those above, wrought from thicker ironwood and meticulously crafted. Layered over them were deep, intertwining runes, glowing faintly with an embedded numen that pulsed like veins through the wood and metal. A technique that damned satyr had taught the village not too long ago.

  And behind them, in a cell just large enough to pace but not enough to stretch one's arms fully, sat his father.

  Hathor's robes, once the proud garments of an elder, were tattered and stained, dirt clinging to the fabric like decay to a corpse. His body bore signs of mistreatment—bruises that bloomed like dark ink beneath his skin, a split lip, a faint cut across his temple. His hair, once neatly combed back, had fallen in loose, unkempt strands over his face.

  But it was his eyes that gave Conryn pause.

  The milky one, damaged long ago, was unfocused, its sight long lost to time. But the other—the one that now lifted to meet his—was sharp. Too sharp. It had none of the haze of defeat, none of the dull vacancy of a broken man. Instead, it gleamed, catching the dim torchlight like a predator lurking beneath the surface of a still pond.

  The weight of it pressed against Conryn's ribs.

  "You have thirty minutes."

  The guard's voice was flat, his tone dispassionate as he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving them in silence.

  And at that, Hathor lifted his head fully, his gaze narrowing, and a glint—something unreadable, something dangerous—flickered behind his eyes.

  "Conryn."

  The name was spoken quietly, yet it carried a weight that pressed against the damp walls of the prison. His father's voice was not weakened despite his bruises and the grime clinging to his once-pristine robes. No, it was as it had always been—controlled, sharp, each word measured like a blade being sharpened before battle.

  "Of all your siblings, you are the first to visit me. Did you know that?"

  Conryn forced himself to breathe evenly, his jaw clenching against the suffocating weight of expectation.

  "I know, Father. I jus—"

  "I'm sure you want to know what to do now," Hathor continued, as if Conryn's words were mere background noise. His voice, once restrained, now carried a subtle edge, something coiled tight beneath the surface. "My power has been stripped away, and so has your own status in the village. But reifications seldom last long. What you need to do is gather your siblings and smear the child. When her status is called into question, you need to push and lobby with the other elders who despise the satyr and his two little monsters. If you manage to collapse her position, then you can leverage that power to release me from my bonds."

  The ironwood bars between them seemed to grow heavier, their rune-carved surfaces gleaming with a dull sheen in the dim light. The air felt thick, as though it had been laced with something unseen, something suffocating.

  Hathor's gaze sharpened, the glint in his remaining good eye dark with intent. "A good way would be to provoke the boy first. He is violent, destructive, and beastly. But his sister—" he let the words stretch, curling like smoke in the cold air, "she will always take his side, no matter what."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Conryn's heart seized. A pulse of cold panic gripped his chest like unseen hands squeezing the breath from his lungs. His fingers twitched at his sides, the memory clawing its way into the forefront of his mind.

  In the periphery of his vision, he saw it—the thing that had haunted his nights ever since that day. The towering, black-scaled monstrosity with crimson eyes like burning embers. Its maw parted ever so slightly, revealing two rows of teeth glistening with fresh blood. It licked its chops with its barbd tongue, savoring the remnants of his flesh, of his fear, of his helplessness. He could hear his own screams echoing in the depths of his mind, feel his own body breaking under the crushing weight of its strength.

  He had barely survived.

  And now his father was telling him to do it again?

  "No.

  His breath was unsteady. His body felt cold. His hands trembled despite himself.

  "NO—Wait! You want me to provoke him again? Even after what happened last time?

  His voice pitched with disbelief, his tone skirting the edge of something dangerously close to fear. "After I nearly died?!"

  He expected his father to acknowledge it, to recognize the gravity of his words, but instead, Hathor merely stared at him, his expression shifting only slightly—annoyance. That same tired, calculating gaze he had always given his children when they disappointed him.

  The silence stretched, and then—

  "Watch your tone, boy."

  The authority in those words hit like a hammer, the old command threading through his veins, demanding obedience.

  "And I don't want you to die," Hathor continued, his voice colder now, more clipped. "I want you to be more careful. I want you to follow my Fenrir-damned instructions."

  Conryn's mouth snapped shut. Not because he agreed, not because he was suddenly willing, but because his body responded out of instinct. It was muscle memory—trained, beaten, forged into him over years of molding.

  But he wasn't a child anymore.

  A voice echoed in his head, sharp and biting. Hati's words, spoken to him when he had provoked her in the village as he always had. Words that had stuck in his mind, everyhtng from that day had stuck in his mind.

  "Have your balls dropped yet? Or is your daddy still holding your sack to help you piss?"

  He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, but his fingers curled into fists at his sides. He forced himself to look at the man before him—really look.

  The father he had once sought approval from. The father he had once shaped himself after. The father he had followed so blindly.

  And the man he now stood before, bruised, caged, fallen from grace.

  The silence stretched.

  And then, the words fell from his mouth before he could stop them.

  "Did you—did you do it?"

  The question was quiet, but it carried the weight of an anvil. His voice wavered, his tongue catching on the syllables, the very act of asking sending ice through his veins.

  His father stilled.

  For the first time since this conversation had begun, he paused.

  Then, slowly, his lips curled into something unreadable.

  "Does it matter if I did?"

  Conryn's breath caught in his throat.

  His eyebrows shot up, his stomach churned, and in that moment—his world cracked just a little more.

  "Don't look at me like that, boy."

  Hathor's voice was low, but it carried a weight that pressed against the cold, damp walls of the prison cell. There was no regret in his tone, no hesitation—only certainty, as though he were recounting an undeniable truth of the world.

  The dim torchlight flickered across his bruised face, casting deep shadows that made the hollows of his cheeks seem cavernous, the lines on his forehead etched with something primal. His robes, once immaculate, were now stained with grime, the deep green fabric torn at the edges. His milky eye, clouded and unseeing, remained still, but the other—his good eye—gleamed like tempered steel as it locked onto Conryn.

  "How exactly do you think you enjoyed the privileges you did growing up? You, the son of an elder? You walked through life with your back straight, your chin high, and the knowledge that others would bow their heads in your presence. You were born into power, boy. Born into domination. You reveled in the comforts of authority, but do you think such things come freely? Do you think they belong to those who simply exist?"

  He leaned forward, pressing against the ironwood bars, his voice growing quieter—deadlier.

  "No, Conryn. Power is taken—ripped from the hands of the weak and devoured by those with the will to grasp it. You enjoyed it because you were my blood. But I scrounged for it. I clawed my way through the muck, the dirt, the blood, and the bone. And that—" his lip curled slightly, "that is how one rises from cattle to a true wolf."

  Conryn's jaw tightened, fingers curling into fists at his sides. The air in the cell was thick, carrying the scent of damp stone and old sweat. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but his face remained still, frozen in a mask of barely-contained rage and disbelief.

  Hathor tilted his head, his gaze sharp as a predator assessing wounded prey. "One must indulge and satisfy that hunger which simmers beneath the skin of all beings. Ambition. Violence. Cruelty." He let the words linger, his voice almost thoughtful. "The world looks down upon them, condemns them as sins. And yet, who is it that climbs the highest? Who is it that stands above all others? It is the cruel. The cunning. The ones willing to carve a path through flesh and fire to claim what is theirs. That cruelty, that lust—" he exhaled through his nose, his gaze unwavering, "was the currency that bought you the life you enjoyed. So don't look down on it now."

  Conryn felt his breath hitch.

  His stomach churned. His hands clenched tighter, nails biting into his palms. The words slithered into his ears, wrapping around his thoughts like thorned vines, suffocating, squeezing.

  And yet—

  The worst part was that Hathor believed every word.

  Conryn swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "What? You—" His voice faltered before he forced himself to continue. "You sound insane. You had children her age."

  The words felt small in comparison to the weight of what had been said, but he spoke them anyway. Because they needed to be said.

  Hathor barely blinked. His expression remained perfectly still, except for the faintest, knowing smirk at the corner of his mouth.

  "And you tried to kill a child far younger," he countered smoothly. "Your point, boy?"

  Conryn recoiled as if struck.

  His breath turned sharp, chest tightening.

  "I didn't know," he snarled, voice rising, almost cracking. "I thought it was a beast! I—"

  "And it was."

  Hathor's voice was like a blade pressed against his throat—calm, steady, and utterly merciless.

  Then, his father's one good eye snapped to his, pinning him in place.

  "Just like the girl was cattle."

  A shiver ran down Conryn's spine.

  There was nothing human in Hathor's gaze—only something cold and calculating, something stripped of even the pretense of empathy.

  "Know this, boy," he continued, his voice sharp as tempered steel. "Power and motive determine all things. If someone is on your side but beneath you, they are a dog on a leash. If someone is above you, they are a stag on a mountain waiting to be slain. If someone is weaker than you and beneath you in status, they are cattle. If someone is weaker than you but stands in opposition to your goals, then they are sheep in wolves' clothing—worthless, deluded, pretending at strength they do not possess."

  Hathor leaned forward, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

  "They are not people, Conryn. They are just animals. And you—" his lips curled, his voice turning almost gentle, almost fatherly, "you are my legacy. And that means you are a person."

  Silence stretched between them.

  Something thick, something suffocating, something that wrapped around Conryn's lungs and squeezed until he could barely breathe.

  His father's words rang in his ears like war drums—deep, deafening, inescapable.

  His legacy.

  His bloodline.

  Was that all he was to Hathor? A product of his teachings? A reflection of his ideals?

  Conryn's breathing quickened. His chest felt tight. His limbs burned with something unnameable.

  And then—

  Hathor's expression shifted.

  The glint in his eye darkened, his lips curling back into something ugly, something sharp.

  "But if you will not help—" his voice turned to a growl, his teeth bared like a wolf about to rip into its prey, "then maybe you were just a fucking animal after all."

  His voice cracked through the prison air like a whip.

  Spittle flew from his lips, his face twisted with raw contempt, with fury, with something feral and unhinged.

  For a moment, Conryn simply stared.

  Then, his fingers twitched.

  And deep within him—buried beneath the horror, beneath the rage, beneath the weight of everything—something else stirred.

  Something cold.

  Something final.

  Conryn stepped back, nearly stumbling as his legs buckled beneath him. A tremor shot through his body, as if his bones had momentarily forgotten how to hold him upright. His breath came shallow, ragged, his heartbeat a war drum pounding against the walls of his ribs. The prison air, thick with damp and decay, pressed against him like a suffocating shroud.

  Just when had he become like this?

  Why had he ever molded himself after such a man?

  His father—no, Hathor—was not a man who saw people as people. He dehumanized everything, stripped everything of meaning beyond its use to him. Everything except his own flesh and blood, and even that—even that—was measured in worth. It was power that mattered, utility, nothing else.

  Was this what power did to people? Was the struggle for control, for dominance, truly so horrid?

  His throat was dry. His hands curled at his sides, nails digging into his palms in a desperate attempt to anchor himself, to feel something beyond the unraveling storm in his head.

  "You sound insane," Conryn finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. The words left his lips like something fragile, something that might shatter before it even reached its destination.

  The darkness of the prison seemed to close in around them, the shadows of the ironwood bars stretching unnaturally, like skeletal fingers grasping for the edges of his vision.

  Hathor chuckled. It was low, gravelly, and deeply amused.

  "And you are sane, boy?"

  The smile on his face was wrong—rotted, like meat left too long in the sun.

  "I forged it into your head and into your body. Every lesson, every word, every discipline—I molded you, son. And that other boy—Worgen, was it? I heard the stories." His grin widened, showing the yellowed edges of his teeth. "When faced with that beast, you didn't hesitate. You used him as a shield. You didn't even think. Your instincts took over, and you did exactly what needed to be done."

  He stepped closer, the flickering torchlight casting uneven shadows over his face.

  "I was so proud."

  The words struck Conryn like a hammer to the chest.

  A burst of nausea surged from the pit of his stomach, a writhing sickness that curled up his throat like skull moths trapped inside his belly, battering against his ribs, against his lungs, desperate to escape. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, his hands shaking at his sides.

  And why?

  Because Hathor was not wrong.

  The truth of it clawed at his skin, a venom burrowing into his veins.

  He had done it. He had thrown Worgen in front of that monster without hesitation, without even a flicker of remorse in the moment.

  He had moved without thinking.

  "I was proud you were becoming like me," Hathor continued, his voice like silk wrapped around steel. "Following the path to power. The path of pride and dominance. The path of a true ruler."

  His eye gleamed, hungry. "So do what I ask."

  Conryn felt something break.

  Everything beneath him crumbled.

  Something ripped through him, sharp and jagged, a shearing pain that tore through the foundation of his very being. The pieces of himself—the pieces that had held him together, that had told him who he was, what he stood for—began to dissolve, dissolving like sugar dropped into warm water, losing form, losing definition.

  It looked the same on the surface.

  But it wasn't.

  It would never be the same.

  A chemical change.

  An irreversible change.

  His breaths came shallow, barely held together by the threads of his unraveling mind.

  Then—footsteps.

  Loud. Steady. Cutting through the air like the ticking of some great, unseen clock counting down.

  The guard.

  His armored boots thudded against the stone floor as he approached, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering glow of the torchlight. The dim flames wavered, casting long shadows that stretched like cracks through the damp, uneven walls.

  He looked upon Conryn's stricken face. Then, his gaze flickered to Hathor, who now stood, his back straight despite his bruises, his single good eye gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement.

  The guard exhaled sharply.

  "Your time is up," he said coldly.

  The words echoed through the chamber, final and unyielding.

  Conryn barely moved.

  He could feel his father's gaze still on him, sharp and unwavering, even as the ironwood bars stood between them.

  The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

  Then, slowly—numbly—Conryn turned.

  And he walked away. The world ringing in his ears.

  ___________

  Midea merged seamlessly into the shadows, his form dissolving into the inky depths of the night as he followed the thread of information he had gleaned from the shadow he had attached to Luna. The weight of the three moons hung over him, their light dimming where he passed, the ever-present haze of nocturnal mist shifting and parting in his wake. His movements were fluid, deliberate, yet tinged with something close to exasperation—perhaps even the faintest trace of concern.

  He did not like this.

  The terrain beneath his hooves shifted as he recognized the outskirts of Shadeside. By Satan's fangs, what a pitiful favela it was. A carcass of a district, barely clinging to the edge of what civilized men would call society. Crooked buildings leaned against each other like drunkards stumbling home after a long night of drowning in vice. Narrow alleyways wound between them, their passageways littered with refuse, forgotten trinkets, and the occasional gleam of something more sinister in the moonlight—something wet, something coppery. The air here carried the sharp tang of desperation, a mingling of sweat, smoke, and the acrid stench of numen-scorched blood.

  And yet…

  Sin was inherent to all things.

  No matter how wretched the place, no matter how rotten the people, sin was the pulse of all creation. It was the way of the world.

  But that was not his concern at the moment.

  Darkness clung to him as he flickered forward, weaving through the dimly lit streets with an ease only he could manage, until finally, he found her.

  Luna stood in absolute silence, her presence wrapped in something far more elusive than mere stealth. It was that same ability she had awakened during her transformation—the one she barely seemed aware of, the one that made her feel less like she was hiding and more like the world itself was hiding her. Even for him, it took effort—true effort—to perceive her clearly. She was not invisible, no, but she was something worse—she was something unseen unless acknowledged. A gap in perception, a void where sight should register.

  It was… fascinating.

  And a problem.

  Not far ahead, the prison loomed like a monolith, its ironwood-reinforced walls standing tall and unyielding beneath the moonlight, adorned with layers of intricate wards that shimmered faintly under the watchful eye of the cosmos. The air around it was damp with the chill of confinement, of despair.

  From within, a boy stumbled out.

  Midea's sharp gaze flicked to him, recognition sparking instantly.

  Hathor's son.

  Conryn.

  Even from a distance, the expression carved into the boy's face was unmistakable—a taut, pale mask of something like horror. His movements were stiff, his breath shallow, as if something cold had wound its way into his bones, refusing to let go.

  Midea's eyes slid back to Luna.

  She had not moved an inch.

  She was just staring at him.

  Watching.

  Her dark eyes were locked onto Conryn with an unwavering intensity, her face unreadable, her presence like a sharpened blade resting on the precipice of a decision not yet made. She was too still—predatory in a way that only the truly patient could be.

  Even when Midea's presence brushed against the edges of her awareness, even when his hooves barely made a sound as he stepped up behind her, she did not turn.

  Her attention did not waver.

  Midea exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

  These damn children.

  "Killing him will not heal your mother. Nor will it erase your pain. On the contrary, in fact, it will make our lives several times more difficult."

  Midea's voice cut through the night like a dagger, smooth yet firm, edged with a weight that only centuries of experience could forge. His words did not waver, though he knew how much they would grate against the storm brewing in Luna's mind.

  The girl said nothing.

  She did not flinch, nor shift, nor give any outward sign that she had even heard him.

  But Midea felt it.

  The thick, simmering heat of her intent curled around her like a second skin. It was subtle, coiled beneath the surface of her stillness, but he knew. The way her posture leaned slightly forward, the way her fingers flexed ever so slightly at her sides—bloodlust, tightly controlled but present all the same.

  Midea exhaled through his nose, lips quirking into something between amusement and exasperation.

  How troublesome.

  He had known warlords with less restraint than this girl. He had dined with demonic nobles who would sentence a man to death if he had the audacity to sit at the same table rather than drink on his feet. Midea had always found it excessive, though admittedly entertaining. The Darklings of of the high houses had a certain flair for absurd cruelty. Every last one of them walked around as though they had a Qliphoth stake from the lowest pit of hell shoved so far up their asses they could taste the bark.

  He shook his head slightly, refocusing on Luna.

  She had not moved.

  Her gaze was still locked onto the boy, Hathor's son, with an eerie, unblinking focus. Her body was still, too still, like a panther poised in the grass before the kill.

  "The child should not inherit the sins of their father." His voice softened, but the weight of his words remained. "Not like you did."

  At that, her eyes snapped to him.

  The shift was immediate, abrupt. Her gaze was dark, deeper than shadow, deeper than mere resentment. There was something ancient in the way she looked at him, something cold—the kind of cold that did not simply chill the skin but reached down into the marrow.

  Midea did not waver beneath it.

  He should have expected as much.

  The transformation from a mere girl into what she was now—a Kabbalistic Demon—had already begun rewiring the very core of her being. Her body was changing, becoming something else, something greater, something more imperious. But that was not all.

  It was seeping into her mind.

  The rage, the hatred, the self-righteous fury of a ruling demon of Hell.

  The bloodlust that demanded the obliteration of the weak.

  This was not Luna speaking.

  Not entirely.

  "My father saved my life," she said finally, her voice slow, deliberate, but carrying an edge sharper than any blade. "He left behind my necklace for me. He was not a good man, but do not compare him to that dog."

  Her words struck like flint against stone, resounding in the thick silence between them.

  Midea tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He could almost hear the growl beneath her voice, feel the weight of her instincts pressing against the air like a brewing storm.

  Yes. He should have expected this. But dog huh? A curious insult for wolf people.

  "Indeed. But what did that boy do to you?"

  Midea's voice was smooth, measured, yet behind it lay something deeper—something far more calculating than mere words. His crimson eyes never wavered from Luna's as he spoke, watching, studying, waiting.

  "Do you know that part of the reason Hathor did what he did was because he hated your father?"

  The night was heavy around them, thick with the hush of darkened streets and the distant murmurs of Shadeside's nocturnal dwellers. The air smelled of damp earth, of smoke curling from guttering lanterns, of the metallic tang of rust and old blood soaked into cobblestone. Overhead, the three moons hung like pale sentinels, casting silver light upon the shadows that clung to the village.

  And still, she did not answer.

  She only stared.

  Midea continued.

  "He is a pathetic man," he said, "one who has never been whole in his life. And because of that, he must take. From everything. From everyone. But like sugar in a cavity, that pleasantness only makes the hole grow larger. No matter how much he takes, the rot spreads. The hunger deepens."

  Luna's fingers twitched at her sides.

  He could feel it—the war raging inside of her. The struggle between cold, calculated fury and something deeper, something older.

  Midea leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower, pressing forward like the weight of a blade against bare skin.

  "When he found a man he could not take from, then, to fill that emptiness, he took the next best thing. It had no relation to the issues he had with your father, but he took it anyway. Because that is what men like him do. They consume, they steal, they infect. That is their nature."

  Luna's eyes did not blink. But something in them flickered.

  Midea saw it.

  A single fracture in the perfect, emotionless shell she had encased herself within. A hesitation, small but undeniable. A doubt that had not been there before.

  He did not let up.

  "Luna, you deserve your revenge," he said, his tone steady, deliberate. "And I am no saint. You know this. But is this how you want to take it? Like him? Like Hathor?"

  Her breath hitched.

  The flicker in her gaze bloomed.

  It spread like ink in water, unraveling the taut strings of restraint she had bound herself in.

  Hesitation deepened into something else—sorrow, regret, indignation, fury. The emotions flickered across her face in the dim light, fast and fleeting, too tangled to separate. Her lips parted, and for a moment, she looked as if she might speak—might say something, might lash out, might deny him with the same vehemence she had before.

  But she didn't.

  Her throat bobbed, and her eyes watered, but no tears fell.

  For just a second, she wasn't one loved by the world. She wasn't a demon. She wasn't a vengeful daughter or a hunted child.

  She was just a girl.

  A girl who had lost everything.

  The next moment, her face hardened once more.

  She turned sharply, the shift so sudden it sent the edges of her cloak snapping in the cold night air.

  "Where are you going?" Midea sighed, rubbing his temple as if he already knew the answer.

  Her voice quivered, though it held a fierce edge.

  "To my mother!"

  And then she was gone.

  Her footsteps quickened against the dirt path, fading into the distance. Midea watched her retreating form, watched the tension in her shoulders, the stubborn set of her jaw, the anger and pain burning in every movement.

  Words bubbled up in his throat.

  Warnings. Advice. Reassurances.

  But in the end, as she vanished into the shadows of the night, he let them die before they ever left his lips.

  Midea lifted a hand to his hair, swiping it backward in exhaustion. The strands slipped through his fingers, a familiar sensation—grounding, fleeting, and wholly unsatisfying.

  "Fuck," he muttered, exhaling deeply. "You would be so right that I wasn't cut out for this type of thing."

  A wry smile tugged at his lips, but it was weary, lopsided—more exasperation than amusement. It wasn't like him to curse so openly, not unless the occasion truly warranted it. And this?

  This was one of those occasions.

  He tilted his head back, staring at the abyss of the night sky, at the three moons gleaming like distant eyes watching him from above. They had witnessed eons of cruelty, of ambition, of war. And now, they bore witness to his greatest trial yet.

  Fatherhood.

  Truly, the most horrid torture a soul could endure.

  And he had come from Hell itself.