***
???
***
The taste of iron—diluted by rain—filled his swollen mouth as he tried to drag himself out of the night's hell.
The cuts carved into him were deliberate: too shallow to let him bleed out, too deep to let him run.
Get out. Get out…
He crawled past another sergeant's body and heard a fresh shot behind him. It iced his blood harder than the puddles he'd been forced to pull through.
Another shape dropped. Then the walk again.
Not loud. Not hurried.
Just that dead, quiet cadence.
No. Please. I have to—
Every muscle that still answered him tightened. His groans—his pleading—vanished beneath the rain striking stone.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Closer.
He didn't hesitate when his nails tore free. Pain was simply currency—spent for a few more inches of distance.
Tap. Tap.
"Please…" he slurred.
Tap…
His thigh wounds split open as a boot pinned him down. Blood soaked through his trousers faster than hope.
A kick to the hip rolled him onto his back. He saw him looming above—if not the face, then the smear of blue eyes that drowned everything else.
Raindrops fell onto his cheeks.
A barrel followed.
And it bloomed—blue.
***
Radion
***
The pressure at the back of Radion's skull demanded more of him with every step. It pulsed in time with their footfalls, syncing to each quiet knock of boots, playing a rhythm only he could hear.
They entered the main hall, and Radion finally had room to take stock. The first thing he clocked was Rufus—half-swallowed by the décor, as if he belonged to the furniture. When their eyes met, Rufus dipped his head toward the group.
Red banners hung from the ceiling, stamped with a black scale wrapped in thorns—Thornheaven's crest, if Radion had to guess. Tall bookcases stood stuffed with volumes that felt more like props than possessions, especially judging by the spines.
The Power of Now. The Body Keeps the Score… Does he even have time to read all that? And where's the ladder?
Two large plants in ornate pots saved the room from being completely lifeless. Their spilling leaves softened the hard browns and grays with something almost warm.
A little cozier.
They went upstairs. The staircase was polished enough to catch their reflections—four silhouettes moving as one. At the landing they turned left and headed deeper into the estate.
Jean and Jay kept close, talking in low voices—almost whispers. Jean poked him between the ribs, then the shoulder, then right in the forehead, punctuating each jab with wicked little giggles. Jay's mouth curved, and his irises flickered faintly blue. He flicked her ear in return. Jean yelped and smothered it with both hands.
That flash again. So it's—
"...the eyes, that signal a Gift?" Radion finished out loud.
Jean and Jay turned toward him. Naoya, meanwhile, stayed glued to his little notebook, holding it at shoulder height with one hand. The other managed his cigarette like it had been assigned a role.
"Depends," Jean said. "Usually they glow when someone's focusing hard." She shot Jay a look of playful irritation. "Or at will when using the gift, to show you they're up to something."
Jay shrugged, unbothered.
"But yeah. It's a Progenitor tell."
So he really did try to kill me?
"Resonance is part of it too," Jay added, now walking backward, turning his whole body toward Radion.
"But Resonance is Progenitors-only as well, you knucklehead," Jean snapped.
"As it happens," Jay said, melodramatic and clearly entertained, "moments like these allow the lantern of my intellect to shine brightest where and when it matters most."
"Wait," Radion cut in before Jean could fire back. "You're unregistered too. Won't the Consortium come after us for that sparring match?!"
The last words came out sharp—like he'd burned himself on them.
"We're covered," Jay said. "The process is too complicated for me to bother memorizing it though." He waved it away.
"Naaoyaa," Jean dragged out, pleading.
Naoya turned a page with his thumb.
"Short version," he said, the tone of someone reciting an unpleasant fact. "Mages and sensory runes. Resource waste." He tucked the cigarette between his lips and lifted his free hand, as if placing quotation marks in the air. "A 'neutral zone.' An area where, to the sensor, nothing is happening."
"Told you," Jay said, shrugging again.
Radion's gaze drifted to the wall—but his eyes weren't really on the wall. A faint tingling threaded through his fingers. Gooseflesh crept along his neck, as if a cold draft had brushed past him.
Except there was no draft.
Jean looked at him a second longer than before.
And then longer still.
"It's an unbelievably annoying procedure," Naoya said, yanking Radion back to the room. "It takes obscene resources and near-perfect execution."
"There's no better way?" Radion asked as they stepped into the next space.
The lounge was brighter than the rest of the manor—and far more human. Plush seats that practically begged for collapse. Food already laid out on a long dining table. Shelves, games, little corners meant for living.
A clean breath inside a house built on symmetry.
"There is," Naoya said, sinking into a chair at a chess table where a game was already mid-progress.
Radion sat opposite. Jay dropped onto the sofa like his bones had been borrowed. Jean stretched into an armchair.
Naoya studied Radion before continuing, resting his face on the hand that held a black knight.
"But it requires a certain someone to finally write his runes down."
Does he know?
"A certain who?" Radion asked carefully.
"The Progenitor of Negation." Naoya moved the knight and held Radion's gaze as if the board didn't matter. "You've heard of him."
Then he lifted his hand from the piece and leaned back slightly. Radion arranged his face into practiced curiosity. A convincing look.
He knows.
"Do you think he should submit to the Consortium," Radion asked, "and stay under lock and key forever?"
"Yes," Naoya answered—immediate, clean.
For a fraction of a second, Radion's expression twitched: surprise, irritation, something like offense.
He clocked that.
"The Consortium are scum, sure," Naoya continued, smooth again. "But those runes would end up locked with the Keepers. The Empire would have a harder time getting its hands on them."
"And how does that help us?" Radion asked. "It just makes the Consortium stronger. More authority. More leverage. They'll be worse than they already are."
"You're forgetting who we work for," Naoya said, eyes flicking to the frozen white pieces. "Besides—are they really that much of a threat?"
"Don't feed him, Radion," Jean muttered, face angled toward the ceiling. "He'll moralize until sunrise."
"For a Progenitor on the run? Absolutely," Radion said, sliding his rook forward.
"And for you?" He took a queen that had been left hanging. "You might turn out to be one of them."
"Whether I am or not, the Consortium will always find a way to ruin people's lives," Radion shot back. His rook snapped a pawn in retaliation.
"And that's why Vorloks walk the capital like they own it," Naoya said, sarcasm spilling out with his breath, "and criminal scum with lethal runes terrorize civilians?"
He moved a bishop. Then stood with a hint of a smirk.
"Go train."
Checkmate…
Radion exhaled hard through his nose. A moment later, Jean's head rose over the armchair backrest. Her voice was muffled into her forearms.
"Told you."
"You told him," Jay echoed, amused.
"You told me," Radion muttered.
They stared at the ceiling for a beat—quiet broken only by the whisper of Naoya turning pages.
Jean broke first.
"I said he was a jerk."
"He's not that bad," Radion said.
"He really isn't," Jay agreed.
"This jerk still has ears," Naoya called from behind the paper stack, earning a small chorus of chuckles. He kept smiling, then checked the clock above the doorway. "Seven minutes. Grab a bite to eat."
"Yes, Captain," Jean said, saluting from her sprawl.
"You're overdoing it," Jay groaned, twisting away from the secondhand embarrassment.
"Maybe I'm a little stressed," Jean admitted with an awkward grin.
Radion's brows lifted. He looked more thrown than surprised.
"I'm the one who should be stressed," he protested. "You're all on a completely different level."
"Time," Naoya said, leaning against the table, washing down smoke with black coffee.
"I can't remember the last time someone knocked Naoya around," Jean said. "Can you, Jay?" Jay shook his head. "It's normal this feels… new. Exciting."
Radion was about to argue the compliment when something clicked.
Thinking back—he sent me flying with almost no effort. That wasn't a fight. It was an interview.
Radion glanced at Naoya. On paper, he was hurrying them.
In reality, he looked unbothered.
He isn't even trying to defend his pride…
"So you fight often?" Radion asked, moving toward the table and scanning the spread.
"Not as much as you'd think," Jay said. "Sometimes this job is quicksand."
"What do you mean?" Radion asked, sorting through bread.
"I mean you don't thrash," Jay said, chin lifting. "You sink faster."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
"That lantern isn't shining too bright," Jean said, unable to help herself.
Naoya slurped his coffee, trying to swallow a laugh.
"Two minutes," he mumbled into the mug, and kept slurping.
"What I mean," Jay continued, "is sometimes you pull a few strings instead of putting someone in the ground." He paused. "A lot of the time… they put themselves in it for us."
Radion's hand stilled.
Is this a metaphor too?
"Metaphor too," Jay said at once, catching it on his face.
Jean pushed herself up and drifted toward the food.
"You drink, Radion?" Jay asked, reaching for a chicken drumstick.
"Used to," Radion said, a faint embarrassment surfacing with old memories. "Just… never with a steady crew."
"We'll fix that," Jay said, smiling.
Jean answered with a knowing nod and Radion smiled in turn.
"I encourage you to fix it as early as tonight," Thornheaven said, stepping into the room.
Radion hastily tried to set his food down. The minister waved it off with an easy, reassuring gesture.
Naoya glanced at the clock.
Nine on the dot.
"I'd be happy to join you myself," Thornheaven added as he approached the table stacked with documents.
"If you can find the time, boss, that'd be great," Jay said. "Are we celebrating something?"
"In a moment," Thornheaven replied, sitting down and gesturing for Radion to take the seat across from him. The others settled around the table with their food. Naoya even slid an orange toward Thornheaven.
Thornheaven thanked him with a nod and began speaking with bright energy, sorting papers as he talked.
"Cassius Thornheaven. A thorn in the Empire's side—one that's blooming at an alarming rate. Whatever grows from it will be worse than anything we've faced so far, worse than the Empire." He smiled, warm as ever. "We all agree he has to disappear. And I know each of you has personal goals. I hope we can achieve those along the way."
So it isn't just the cause for them, either.
"We've confirmed," he continued, "that his abilities depend—largely—on a chosen group of people ranked lieutenants. We don't know how he managed it, and we don't know how to undo it by any means other than death."
So there'll be more bodies than just Cassius.
Thornheaven began peeling the orange. The room stayed casual on the surface, but everyone's attention tightened around his words.
"Your task is to eliminate those lieutenants. Strip Cassius of whatever makes him untouchable—restore his mortality. We're tracking them as we speak."
Fire woke behind Naoya's eyes. Jay's jaw flexed; his fists clenched. Jean's gaze moved from Naoya to Jay to Radion and back again.
Who the hell are these lieutenants?
Thornheaven bit into the peeled orange without separating the segments.
"Questions?"
"When do we move?" Naoya asked quietly—his voice rough, like it had to be dragged out.
"We already have," Thornheaven said, not letting the question linger.
"Are they Progenitors?" Jean asked.
"Only Progenitors," Thornheaven replied—same bright cadence. "And they're using Echo openly."
Jay went pale.
Echo…?
"Are they all in Ericus?" he asked, voice trembling at the edges.
"We don't know, Jay. There's a chance we'll be moving across the entire Empire—at least some of you."
This is insane.
Thornheaven's eyes settled on Radion. Waiting.
After a beat, Radion asked, "How many?"
Thornheaven leaned forward and spoke in an even, measured tone.
"Well then, dear Radion. If everything goes according to plan—and the plan shouldn't fail…" His smile stayed gentle. "Tonight we'll be toasting the fact that only six remain."