The metallic taste of blood lingered in my throat, a viscous reminder that my body was beginning to protest. The sharp ringing of interference had faded, but the emptiness left behind by Silas's and Julian's voices felt like a bruise inside my skull—an aching absence.
Oswin and Lyaris packed in tense silence, broken only by the creak of wood. The old man chose a different combat axe, wide-bladed with a reinforced handle, while Lyaris… well, she rescued Mr. Whiskers.
We've just been subjected to a cooperative kidnapping, and the first thing she secures is a stuffed cat, I thought, watching her with a mix of amazement and an odd tenderness I refused to acknowledge. That attachment was the last trace of the girl she once was, before Eryndor forced her to harden.
As for me, I prepared my gear with the mechanical coldness of the Institute. I stored the black axe and the mysterious katana—the latter now humming beneath a pair of containment glyphs Oswin had placed with expert fingers.
"So you don't leave again before it's time," the old man had said, avoiding my eyes.
As a last resort, I packed a small vial of Limonia residue. The hunger left by the sensory collapse was voracious, but I noticed something curious: the acidity of the lemon dulled the pain in my head, as if its freshness could scrub away the static left by the S.E.C.
When I finished, I lay back in the darkness of the shed. I tried to reflect—if throwing questions into the void and receiving only echoes can be called reflection. My mind kept circling the same two names.
Silas.
Julian.
What were they to me, really? Brothers by blood, or shared mistakes on a Petri dish? The frustration of not fully remembering them was an open wound. I knew their voices were my only anchor to reality… and also the noose tightening around my neck.
Tomorrow, the gates of Eryndor Castle would open. I didn't know in what capacity I would enter—as a guest, a prisoner, or a laboratory curiosity.
But I knew one thing.
I had to bring them back. Silas and Julian were the only things worth salvaging from the ashes of the S.E.C. And if reclaiming them meant facing an ice princess and a knight with more armor than brains, so be it.
"I promise," I murmured to the cold air of the shed, clenching my fists as I closed my eyes. "I promise that one day we'll live as people."
I paused, feeling the citrus scent of the vial in my bag.
"And we'll eat all the lemon we want," I added, casting the promise into the void of the other plane, hoping with all my soul that somewhere between worlds, they could hear me.
The only response was a burst of static at the base of my neck—and a sudden acidic taste in my mouth, identical to a lemon candy.
A silent confirmation.
A sign that I wasn't alone in that vow.
Tomorrow, the war against destiny would truly begin.
When I woke, I was greeted by a freezing gust unlike the forest wind.
"Wake up, Tetsuo," Lyaris ordered sleepily, flicking a minor spell with one hand.
I opened one eye to look at her—and didn't regret it.
She wore a loose green nightgown, her golden hair slightly disheveled, a stray lock falling free as she rubbed her eyes.
"Are you going to stay there analyzing the light spectrum of my nightgown, or do you plan to get up, 03?" she said.
The use of my old number hit me like a bucket of ice water. I sat up sharply, my artificial vertebrae creaking.
"How do you know that number?" I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.
Lyaris paused, tucking the loose strand behind her ear. She glanced at me sideways, and for a moment the timidity of her unguarded state vanished, replaced by those jade eyes that seemed to see straight through my circuitry.
"You shouted it last night while you were delirious," she replied simply, though her hand trembled slightly. "You were yelling names. Julian. Silas. And that number… like it was a sentence."
I said nothing. The "living room" in my head was still empty, but the residual static reminded me my secrets were no longer mine alone.
"Get dressed," she ordered, regaining her authoritative tone as she tossed me my black jacket. "Elara's courtesy has a time limit, and Percy looks like the kind of man who enjoys excessive punctuality."
I stood, ignoring the dizziness. In the main room, Oswin was already there, tightening the straps of a studded leather cuirass that made him look ten years younger and twenty times more dangerous.
"Quick breakfast," the old man said, pointing to dried bread and jerky. "The 'welcoming committee' is already clearing the path."
When we opened the cabin door, Eryndor greeted us with military solemnity. It wasn't just the snow anymore—it was the shine of steel. Percy sat mounted on his steed, armor gleaming beneath a sun that offered no warmth. Behind him, four Winter Guard riders formed a perfect arc, their midnight-blue cloaks rippling in unison, as if even the wind respected them.
"You are three minutes late," Percy declared, glaring at me with a contempt that was becoming oddly comforting. "Princess Elara does not tolerate idleness, not even from 'special guests.'"
"And I don't tolerate shrill voices before my daily dose of citrus, yet here we are," I replied, walking past him while chewing on a slice of lemon.
I saw the vein in his neck throb. His hand twitched toward his sword, but a glacial look from Lyaris stopped him cold.
"Move," Oswin ordered, shutting the cabin door with finality. "The castle won't besiege itself… or whatever it is we're doing there."
The journey began in icy silence. As we walked under royal steel, my eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. The pale-walled castle grew with every step, along with the certainty that I was voluntarily entering a trap designed to dissect what remained of my humanity.
Don't trust the light, Silas had warned.
I watched the sun reflect off Percy's armor. Too bright. Too perfect.
"Hey, Lyaris," I whispered, drawing closer as we walked. "If things go bad in there… don't worry about Subject 03. Secure Mr. Whiskers and run."
She didn't look at me, but she quickened her pace until we were shoulder to shoulder.
"Shut up, idiot," she muttered. "If you die, who's going to carry the apples in the next village?"
I smiled inwardly. It wasn't Silas's promise—but in this world, it was close enough to a reason to keep living.
We halted abruptly as a dark wooden carriage with golden reliefs emerged from the mist. Percy gestured smugly for us to board.
"Be grateful for the Princess's benevolence," he muttered. "You're not even worthy of touching this leather."
I ignored him, analyzing the carriage's reinforcement points. The interior was surprisingly spacious: four velvet seats facing each other, with enough room in the center to draw an axe if needed.
I was about to sit beside Lyaris—purely out of protective instinct, I told myself—when Percy moved with desperate speed. He blocked my path with his armored shoulder, pointing theatrically.
"These seats are for the lady and her protector," he proclaimed, seating himself beside Lyaris as she rolled her eyes.
I'll admit it—the fool achieved something rare: genuine indignation. My right hand itched, calculating the exact force needed to eject him through the window without destabilizing the carriage.
"Structural weak point: the window frame is reinforced pine," Julian interjected coolly. "Using his mass against the angle will result in a clean and aesthetically pleasing ejection. Do it, 03. His presence disrupts the interior symmetry."
Just as I was about to act, a firm tug yanked me backward.
I landed with a dull thud on the opposite seat, right beside Oswin. The old man looked at me with a smug expression that screamed told you so.
"Leave him," Oswin said, jerking a thumb at his former student. "He gets especially unbearable when he thinks someone else might catch the attention of a pretty girl."
"I HEARD THAT, MASTER!" Percy shouted, red with fury and embarrassment.
"That was the point, Perceval," Oswin replied, settling in to sleep as if we weren't surrounded by armed guards.
I glanced at Lyaris. She stared out the window, clutching Mr. Whiskers tightly—saying more than words ever could. We were entering the wolf's mouth, and the carriage moved fast enough that my lemon-and-nerves-filled stomach protested.
The ride was an exercise in endurance—not physical, but mental.
Enduring Percy's delusions of grandeur while my implants suffered interference was a new level of torment Eryndor had devised. The air grew denser, charged with static that raised the hairs on my arms.
"Tetsu… listen…" Silas's voice crackled like a poorly tuned radio. "The air here has… an owner. Don't trust the shine… they're filtering your—"
A sharp tone, like a failing heart monitor, forced me to grit my teeth.
"Are you okay?" Lyaris asked, watching me over Percy's shoulder. Her jade eyes searched for system failure.
"Just the pressure change," I lied, cold sweat betraying me.
The carriage stopped with insulting smoothness. When we disembarked, the sight hit like a controlled detonation.
Before us stood the Isosceles Bastion.
It wasn't a castle—it was a declaration of war against nature. White marble and pale stone walls rose like icy fangs carved by giants. Hundreds of midnight-blue banners waved in perfect coordination, and ranks of mirror-armored guards formed a steel corridor reflecting my distorted image, reminding me I didn't belong.
Elara waited atop the grand staircase. Her white fur cloak billowed, giving her a glacial divinity. Beside her stood a man in golden robes, gripping a staff pulsing with rhythmic light. My sensors couldn't identify the energy source—impossible for the S.E.C., mundane for Eryndor.
"Welcome to the heart of the kingdom," Elara announced. Her voice filled the courtyard without effort. "Sir Perceval, escort the guests to their chambers. The 'guest'… take him to the Chamber of Reflection."
The temperature dropped sharply.
"Wait—the Chamber of Reflection?" Lyaris protested, stepping forward with Mr. Whiskers pressed to her chest. "You said he'd come as a guest."
"And he is," Elara replied coolly, fixing her icy gaze on her former friend. "But a guest who casts no shadow in my records must be calibrated before walking my halls. This is not a suggestion. It is Crown protocol."
Percy's hand clamped onto my shoulder—firm, confident, a shackle.
"Move, pleb," he ordered, shoving me toward a remote tower.
I looked back. Oswin gave a subtle nod—play along, for now. Lyaris held my gaze a moment too long, anger and something close to fear in her eyes.
As the iron doors of the tower opened, exhaling cold stone and metal, I touched the vial of Limonia in my pocket.
My anchor.
"Good luck, 03," Julian whispered, terrifyingly clear. "Try not to let them open your skull before I do. It would be a waste of anatomy."
The doors slammed shut behind me, the metallic echo swallowing the sunlight.
The training was over.
The interrogation was about to begin.