The basement of Varkas's shop was silent, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of Alaric. He sat on a wooden stool, his cloak discarded on the floor. The wound on his shoulder—where the Hollow Knight's rapier had pierced him—wasn't bleeding red. Instead, a faint, wispy violet mist rose from the torn flesh, and the edges of the wound were rimmed with frost.
"Don't move," Evelyn commanded, her voice trembling slightly. She was holding a needle threaded with glowing silver silk, but her eyes were fixed on the frost. "The rapier was cursed, Alaric. It didn't just cut you; it tried to drain the mana directly from your core."
"I felt it," Alaric said, his voice a low vibration that made the glass vials on the nearby shelves rattle. "It felt like a cold hand reaching for my heart. If I hadn't used Varkas's silver liquid, that thing would have hollowed me out from the inside."
Evelyn began to sew, her movements quick and precise. Each time the needle pierced his skin, Alaric's golden eyes flickered, the pupils narrowing into slits. He didn't flinch, but the iron floor beneath his boots began to crack from the pressure of his grip.
"You took a massive risk," she whispered. "The person controlling that construct... they saw you, Alaric. They saw a 'Cinder' who could destroy a soul-bound knight. They won't just send another puppet next time. They'll send an army."
"Let them," Alaric growled. "Every enemy they send is a distraction for Gareth. The more the underground lords fear me, the less they look for a fallen Paladin."
"Or the more they realize you're exactly what Gareth is hunting," Evelyn retorted, snapping the thread. "Look at yourself. You're becoming less human with every fight. The dragon is feeding on the conflict."
Alaric looked down at his hand. His skin was turning a shade of grey that looked more like stone than flesh, and his veins pulsed with a faint, rhythmic purple light. He was winning the tournament, but he was losing the battle to stay himself.
"Varkas," Alaric called out as the old alchemist entered the room. "The VIP stand. Who was the man in the dark robe?"
Varkas swallowed hard, wiping sweat from his forehead. "That... that was Lord Valerius. He's the Shadow-Governor of the lower districts. He's the one who put up the Star-Steel as a prize. People say he's obsessed with 'The Old Magic'—the kind that existed before the Church of Light burned the history books."
"He didn't look like a governor," Alaric said, remembering the cold, calculating gaze of the man. "He looked like a collector."
"And you just became his most valuable piece," Evelyn added, packing away her medical kit. "Tomorrow is the final match. One more win, and the Star-Steel is ours. But remember, Alaric... Valerius doesn't give away prizes for free. He's not waiting for a winner. He's waiting for a god to walk into his trap."
Alaric stood up, his height dwarfing the small room. He felt the weight of the silver thread in his shoulder and the hum of the dragon-core in his chest. He was tired of being a puppet, tired of being a ghost.
"The final match," Alaric whispered, looking toward the ceiling. "I'm not going there for the steel anymore. I'm going there to break the cage."