Few Moment ago...

  The prison hall smelled of damp stone and old iron—like something forgotten but not forgiven.

  Mee-Toh sat on the cold floor, back against the wall, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. His ribs still echoed with earlier kicks. Pain pulsed, dull and rhythmic, like a clock he refused to look at.

  Sleep had tried to take him once.

  It never stayed long.

  The cell door rang open.

  Boots first. Clean. Polished.

  Harrick stepped in, smile sharp enough to cut. Behind him, shadows lingered—well-dressed silhouettes pretending not to lean forward.

  "Quite the exquisite sight," Mee-Toh murmured without lifting his head. His voice was rough, amused despite itself. "Is this where I beg, or have we evolved past tradition?"

  Harrick scoffed. "Oh. You're awake. Disappointing." He gestured lazily. "Come on. You're boring the walls."

  Hands hauled Mee-Toh up. He didn't resist. Resistance was a performance—and he refused to entertain for free.

  The corridor opened into light.

  Too much of it.

  Long tables draped in white. Plates untouched. Crystal glasses catching chandeliers. Perfume layered thick over the copper tang of blood.

  A party.

  Mee-Toh blinked once, adjusted, then smiled faintly. His gaze drifted—Harrick's father sat at the center, posture composed, presence absolute. A man who didn't raise his voice because history did it for him.

  And there—near the edge. The Fragrance Lady. Still. Watching. Measuring.

  "Ah," Mee-Toh said softly. "Familiar faces."

  He tilted his head. "Did you miss me this much?"

  A hand yanked his hair back, forcing his gaze upward.

  Harrick. Too close. Breath uneven.

  Mee-Toh tilted his head slightly, lips curving. "Careful. You'll ruin the symmetry. People notice things like that."

  A ripple of laughter moved through the room—thin, uncertain.

  Harrick shoved him.

  Mee-Toh stumbled, caught himself.

  Another shove—harder. His side struck the table's edge. White pain flashed. Copper filled his mouth.

  Harrick went for the wall.

  Mee-Toh moved—not fast, not dramatic. Just enough.

  Harrick's momentum slipped. Frustration snapped.

  The impact still came—Mee-Toh's head clipped the table corner. He didn't cry out. He just breathed. Slow. As if deciding something.

  When Harrick lunged again, Mee-Toh's elbow came up—sharp, compact. Harrick reeled, and Mee-Toh followed through, driving his head forward.

  Cartilage broke with a wet sound.

  Harrick screamed, clutching his nose.

  The room froze.

  Mee-Toh reached out calmly and plucked a fork from the table.

  He didn't stab.

  He pressed it against Harrick's throat and shoved him back—metal scraping wall, just enough pressure to promise what could happen.

  "Easy," Mee-Toh murmured, amber eyes steady. "Fear works better when it's alive in the chest."

  Harrick's eyes darted—not to Mee-Toh, but to the room.

  To the people watching.

  To the laughter that hadn't stopped fast enough.

  That hurt more than the blood.

  Then the air changed.

  By the time Mee-Toh registered movement, a hand had already closed around his collar and slammed him into the floor. Stone cracked against bone. The breath tore out of him.

  He counted it.

  The seconds.

  The weight.

  The restraint.

  A knee settled between his shoulder blades—not crushing.

  Placing him.

  "How dare you," Harrick's father said quietly, "touch my son."

  Not a question.

  A record.

  Mee-Toh's lips curved—barely.

  "Mhm. It doesn't seem anyone taught you how to behave around people you're trying to intimidate."

  The man's nostrils flared.

  "So what are you implying?" he snapped. "That you're above us? A god, perhaps? You broke my son's nose moments ago. You're nothing but a violent little mistake."

  Mee-Toh tilted his head, eyes drifting past the man—cataloguing the room, the witnesses, the silence. Measuring consequences.

  "Mhm," he said softly. "Some people always need grand names for simple things."

  His gaze returned, steady and unblinking.

  "You call it violence," he continued. "I call it response."

  A pause.

  "Well... it seems you went blind the moment he tried to corner me, didn't you?" Mee-Toh said calmly.

  "Funny how vision fails precisely when responsibility becomes inconvenient."

  The man stiffened.

  Mee-Toh added, almost gently,

  "I know none of you here were taught accountability."

  A beat.

  "So I corrected him."

  The hall went silent.

  Not the tense kind.

  The listening kind.

  The man's jaw tightened, anger coiling—but Mee-Toh didn't flinch. He didn't need to. He wasn't posturing.

  He was stating a fact.

  He leaned down, close enough that only Mee-Toh could hear.

  "In another life, you'd be dead before your head hit the ground."

  The pressure eased.

  "But you're not in another life."

  He straightened.

  "Take him."

  A pause.

  "We still need him breathing. Remove him from my sight."

  A click.

  At the edge of the room, a man had drawn a gun.

  The gun hesitated—just long enough for everyone to remember consequences.

  The Fragrance Lady moved first.

  She turned to Harrick's father, voice smooth, unhurried. "Your son can bleed. He'll recover." Her gaze flicked to Mee-Toh. "This one is leverage. Everyone here knows whose shadow he stands in."

  A beat.

  "He's necessary. For now."

  Silence stretched.

  Guards surged in—not to kill him. To restrain him.

  "Not nice for you," Harrick's father said, voice mild, lethal. "If your father weren't here, this wouldn't end so nicely for you."

  Mee-Toh met his eyes from the floor, a faint smile through the ache. "Then we're both lucky today."

  The grip loosened. Guards stepped back.

  Harrick was dragged away, bloodied, furious—eyes burning with something far more dangerous than pain.

  The party inhaled again.

  Mee-Toh stayed where he was, stone cold beneath him, breath steady despite everything. He stared up at the ceiling, back where he'd started.

  They hadn't killed him.

  Which meant one thing.

  He was still necessary.

  And being necessary was far more dangerous than being hated—

  because hatred burns out.

  Use endures, while someone else pays the price, not the wielder.

  He is the living proof.

  Always.

  ---

  The door shut with a sound that wasn't loud—just final.

  Stone swallowed the echo. Iron settled into place. The cell was narrow, cold in a way that seeped rather than struck. Mee-Toh stood where they'd left him for a moment longer than necessary, as if the world might change its mind.

  It didn't.

  He exhaled, controlled. Rolled his shoulders once. The kind of motion you make when there's nothing left to brace against.

  He sat, back to the wall, knees drawn just enough to ease the tension in his spine. Chains rested loose at his wrists now—an illusion of mercy. Somewhere down the corridor, someone laughed. Somewhere else, someone coughed until it sounded painful.

  Mee-Toh stared at the floor.

  The dust there had patterns. Scuffs. Drag marks. Stories no one bothered to clean away.

  Time stretched. Not forward—sideways.

  His jaw tightened, then loosened. He swallowed once.

  "So..."

  The word came out before he could stop it.

  He paused, breath shallow, as if listening for punishment.

  None came.

  "Worlds demand patience. I'm less willing, it seems. Life doesn't get creative with me—predictable, like the idiots running it. People rarely try kindness.

  The sentence barely held together. The last word fractured—just slightly—as though his voice had brushed against something sharp inside him. He cleared his throat immediately, annoyed at himself more than anything.

  One knee drawn close to his chest, the other extended lazily, foot brushing against the cold stone. Chains dangled from his wrists—a courtesy he neither needed nor asked for.

  He leaned back against the wall, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling, then down to the dust-streaked floor. Marks, scuffs, and forgotten smudges told stories no one cared to finish.

  Silence answered him.

  Not comforting. Not hostile.

  Attentive.

  He leaned his head back against the stone and closed his eyes—not to rest. Never to rest. Just to block out the shape of the room. For a moment, his fingers curled against his palm, nails pressing skin hard enough to remind him where he was.

  Here.

  Now.

  Not there.

  His breathing evened. His expression smoothed. Whatever had stirred retreated, obedient—for now.

  Footsteps passed outside the cell. Slow. Uninterested.

  Mee-Toh opened his eyes again.

  The prison hadn't learned his name yet.

  But it would.

  ---

  Zoe lingered at the door, eyes flicking to the small clock keychain clenched in her hand. Its metallic tick seemed louder in the silence, almost a heartbeat she could hold onto. She wasn't ready to let it go—she needed answers, or at least the chance to try.

  "Can I... stay?" she asked, voice careful, just above a whisper.

  Cecilia raised an eyebrow, studying her. For a long moment, the room stretched—unspoken rules, the weight of other reservations, the quiet judgment of empty walls.

  Finally, a slow nod. "Alright, fine," she said. "We can share. Every room's booked, so yes... we can."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Zoe let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, pressing the keychain into her pocket. It felt like a small victory—soft, simple, and fleeting. But it was enough for now.

  ---

  Zoe's fingers fumbled over the metal of the clock keychain, the cool weight grounding her. Her gaze drifted to the window, tracing the muted glow of the courtyard below, but her mind refused to stay in the present.

  A flash—the sound of boots on cobblestones, the echo of shouts. Cassar's eyes, wide and desperate, staring at her from years ago. His mouth opened, but no sound came. She felt the same helplessness curl in her chest.

  "I'll try to talk with them," Zoe whispered, voice barely more than a breath. Her knuckles whitened on the keychain.

  Noah shifted closer, careful, patient. "You can... need my help," he said softly. "As you told me about him... it wouldn't be safe for you alone."

  Zoe didn't answer right away. She swallowed, the memory pressing against her ribs. The terror, the anger, the silence of that day—it all lurked just beneath her skin. She could still see the fear on Cassar's face.

  "You, okay?" Noah asked, gentle, steady.

  "It's been years," Zoe said quietly. "I thought it was just a nightmare... but seeing it again tells me otherwise. If I'd known earlier... I don't know if I could've swallowed it."

  "You don't need to blame yourself," Noah replied. "You didn't know... and yet you still face it. Just be Zoe, right?"

  Finally, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, a tiny exhale that lifted some of the weight from her chest. A faint smile touched her lips. "Thanks, Noah," she murmured, leaning lightly on the window frame. Her fingers never left the keychain; the tick of the tiny clock echoed the rhythm of her own heartbeat, soft and grounding.

  He didn't respond with words, only a steady presence—a reminder that she didn't have to carry everything alone.

  For a moment, the memory receded. Cassar's face still lingered in her mind, pale and strained, but she could look at it without breaking. Just barely.

  The room was quiet. Safe, as safe as it could be when the past refused to leave her untouched.

  Zoe's grip on the keychain tightened. She would face them. But she wouldn't do it blind. Not anymore.

  ---

  The night pressed against the windows. Cecilia slept lightly in the next room, unaware. Zoe stayed awake, fingers brushing the metal of the clock keychain, heart restless.

  Outside, shadows shifted. Noah leaned against the wall, silent, watching. The corridor held its breath.

  Mee-Toh sat on the floor, head slightly lowered, one knee drawn to his chest, the other leg stretched lazily. Chains rested loosely around his wrists, a courtesy he hadn't asked for. His amber eyes flicked toward the door as Noah's hand moved to the lock.

  The click sounded soft, but it carried weight.

  Zoe's voice broke the quiet. "When... when did you get this key?" Her tone was measured, but curiosity sharpened every word.

  Noah's lips twitched into something like a smirk. "What do you think I've been doing? I'm good at more things than you realize." His eyes met hers briefly, amused.

  Mee-Toh's head lifted slightly. He didn't speak. He observed, still, like a predator letting the scene unfold.

  Zoe held up the clock keychain. "How did you get this... I left this—" She didn't finish; Mee-Toh's hand was already on it.

  "It's my ally," he said simply.

  Her eyebrows rose. "What? That was a gift! For my friend!" Her hands reached for it, trembling. Mee-Toh's grip tightened, unyielding.

  Tears pooled in Zoe's eyes. She felt her chest tighten, but there was a spark of defiance too—she wouldn't give in without answers.

  Noah moved quickly, irritation flaring. "Give it—"

  Mee-Toh caught his wrist effortlessly. "Try."

  Noah froze, eyes narrowing. "This guy..." he muttered, the edge in his voice unmistakable.

  Zoe's voice cracked slightly, small but firm. "Please... you both stop."

  Noah's jaw tightened. "Zoe..."

  "Please... Noah," she whispered, leaning slightly on the wall for support.

  Noah exhaled slowly, stepping back. Mee-Toh relaxed just enough, seating himself against the wall again.

  Zoe's fingers lingered near the keychain. "If you're going to keep it... tell me who you got it from."

  Mee-Toh turned his face away, silent. A faint clench of his jaw betrayed the tiniest shift in mood.

  "Please," she whispered again.

  Noah's anger snapped. He grabbed Mee-Toh's collar. "Didn't you hear her?"

  Mee-Toh's gaze didn't waver. "Better not waste my time... or yours."

  Zoe clenched her fists around the keychain. "I'm not going anywhere until I get my answers."

  Noah's voice softened but remained firm. "Zoe..."

  She lowered herself to the floor, shoulders hunched, her face turned aside. A long moment passed. Then, a flicker caught her eye—a bruise along the inside of Mee-Toh's forearm.

  When Mee-Toh noticed her gaze lingering there, he shifted his arm subtly, covering it. A faint inhale escaped him—quick, almost imperceptible—before he settled back, amber eyes calm and unreadable.

  Zoe's chest tightened. Her heartbeat thrummed in sync with the tiny tick of the clock keychain, a steady reminder that time didn't wait.

  Mee-Toh's gaze met hers for a heartbeat—quiet, unreadable—then turned away directly, back to the shadows of the room.

  The night held them, silent, tense, alive with things unspoken.

  ---

  A Buried memory...

  The chains were older than the room.

  That day, during a task meant to stay buried, he was caught. Mee-Toh had failed that assignment. Failed quietly.

  Cold bit into his wrists. Iron rubbed raw against skin that had long stopped protesting. He'd lost count of how many times he'd tested the bindings—quietly, stubbornly—until pain became background noise. The floor was dirt and ash. The air smelled like sweat and something burnt too long ago to name.

  Someone laughed nearby.

  "Stop struggling," a voice said, bored. "It's been five days."

  Another scoffed. "We even sent word to our enemies. Any guesses why no one came?"

  Silence followed. Heavy. Intentional.

  Mee-Toh kept pulling anyway. Not violently. Not desperately. Just enough to remind himself he still could.

  A woman stepped forward. Her boots crushed something brittle underfoot. She grabbed his hair without warning and yanked his head back until his neck screamed.

  "Mhm," she murmured, inspecting him like spoiled goods. "So disposable, huh? You really planning to die for whatever lie you're hiding?"

  Mee-Toh didn't answer.

  Her fingers tightened.

  "Then die like a stray."

  Pain flashed white—

  —and vanished.

  Fire.

  The camp was burning.

  Tents collapsed inward, fabric screaming as flames ate through them. Bodies lay scattered, some still, some not worth checking. Kairos moved through it all without urgency, eyes sharp, calculating.

  "Informer's dead," Nevan reported.

  Kairos nodded once. "Check for survivors. If they're breathing—finish it."

  He kept walking.

  Then he heard it.

  A sound too small for the fire. Too broken to be mistaken.

  Crying.

  Mee-Toh was crouched near the edge of the clearing, hands shaking, breath coming apart in uneven pieces. Tears ran freely now—no restraint left, no audience worth impressing.

  "Mee-Toh," Kairos said.

  The name landed like a blade.

  Mee-Toh staggered back. "Don't," he said hoarsely. "You can't take me."

  Kairos frowned. "Don't be stupid. You're being emotional."

  A laugh broke out of Mee-Toh—short, cracked, ugly. "You abandoned me first." He wiped his face hard. "Why are you even here? To check if I'm alive or dead? That's not your concern."

  Kairos stepped closer. "So what do you think I'm doing here? Let's go."

  "No." Mee-Toh turned away, eyes squeezed shut. "I won't."

  Nevan glanced between them. "You want me to try?"

  Kairos paused. Then, calmly: "Leave him. If he wants another bruise to live with, that's his choice. We'll wait outside."

  Nevan blinked, then shrugged. "As you wish, maestro."

  They left.

  The fire had burned low by the time Kairos stopped walking.

  Ash drifted through the air like tired snow. Nevan and the others were already setting a perimeter, voices low, efficient. No urgency left. The work was done.

  Behind them, Mee-Toh hadn't moved.

  Kairos didn't look back.

  He knew.

  He knew the crying wasn't weakness—it was release, long overdue. The kind that comes when the body finally realizes it has survived. Forcing him now would only turn relief into fear. Fear into fracture.

  Kairos clicked his tongue softly.

  "Carel."

  She stiffened at her name.

  "You try," he said. "I'm running late."

  Carel hesitated. Just a fraction. Then nodded and moved without a word, disappearing into the dark.

  Kairos stayed where he was, gaze fixed on the treeline, back deliberately turned. Not out of indifference—but respect. Some wounds closed better without witnesses.

  Time passed.

  Not much. Just enough.

  Footsteps returned.

  "Mee-Toh," Carel's voice trembled. "Please."

  Silence.

  Then movement.

  Mee-Toh emerged slowly, eyes red, face turned away as he scrubbed at it with his sleeve, anger at himself barely contained. He stopped a few steps behind Kairos.

  Kairos spoke without turning.

  "Well?"

  Mee-Toh let out a quiet breath. "I thought... you'd laugh at me. I really look like a fool."

  Kairos paused.

  "I told you," He said, still not turning, "there's no joke when you already know the answer." A beat. "I knew the delay would cost you. That's on me." A beat. "I'll account for it."

  Mee-Toh said nothing.

  "Move," Kairos added—not sharp, not cold. Final.

  Mee-Toh did.

  Mee-toh said, almost absently,

  "You know... I feel like a puppet."

  Kairos didn't answer.

  He didn't stop her.

  He didn't deny it.

  He didn't offer meaning where there wasn't any.

  He simply paused — the briefest interruption in his stride.

  Then he moved again.

  That was all.

  The fire crackled behind them, swallowing the last evidence of what had been lost.

  The memory fractured.

  Stone walls. Cold air.

  Mee-Toh blinked, breath steadying, the present reasserting itself with practiced cruelty. Somewhere nearby, someone shifted—Zoe, watching without understanding why her chest felt tight.

  Mee-Toh didn't look at her.

  Some things were not meant to be explained.

  Not yet.

  ---

  Zoe's head rested against the wall, hope thin but stubborn. She watched them from the corner of her vision, as if staring long enough might bend the moment.

  Mee-Toh didn't notice.

  He muttered, barely audible, "I..."

  His focus slipped.

  Another memory.

  The room tilted—and the prison was gone.

  The walls were closer here. Rough. Breathing down his neck.

  "Ne—van..."

  Nothing.

  Nevan didn't look at him.

  Instead, he laughed softly, pacing the narrow space like it belonged to him.

  "Come on," Nevan said lightly. "Kids like you are why I'm stuck behind four walls." He stopped, eyes sharp, amused. "What is it this time? Want to know who I am?" A pause. A smirk. "I'm tired of your stupid, shameful questions."

  Mee-Toh swallowed. His hands curled at his sides.

  Nevan tilted his head. "Mhm. Didn't I already tell you?" He stepped closer. "Why are you still asking, hm? Hoping for a nicer story?" A faint chuckle. "I could give you one—if you really want it that badly."

  "I don't trust a single word you said back then," Mee-Toh replied. His voice held—but barely.

  Nevan smiled, slow and precise.

  "Oh, I know." Another step. "So tell me—how long do you think you can hold it in, ignoring it?" His tone sharpened slightly. "Even Maestro accepted the fact. You're slow. After all these years—still clinging to the same little fantasy?"

  He straightened.

  The distance vanished.

  Mee-Toh stepped back.

  Nevan didn't rush. He let the corner do the work.

  "You see," Nevan murmured, leaning in, voice dropping until it brushed Mee-Toh's ear, "truth doesn't change just because you're tired of hearing it."

  Mee-Toh froze.

  He hadn't realized when his back met the wall.

  "You're not breaking," Nevan continued softly. "You're resisting. And resistance?" A breath of laughter. "That's just refusing to accept your place."

  His voice lowered further. "Why won't you accept it?"

  Something slipped.

  Not a sob. Not a sound.

  Just a single tear—escaping despite him, tracking down his cheek as he turned his face away.

  Nevan noticed.

  Of course he did.

  "Ah," he said gently. "There it is."

  Mee-Toh tried to move.

  Later, he was in the corner—trapped there somehow—Nevan's finger lifting his chin just enough.

  "Smile, my boy."

  A pause. "You look better when you try."

  Nevan laughed—soft, entertained—and released him just as suddenly. He stepped back and bowed, almost theatrical, then spun once, slow and mocking, like a dancer enjoying his own music.

  This wasn't rage.

  This wasn't violence.

  This was amusement.

  That was when they ran.

  Footsteps echoed, breath ragged, fear sharp and real as they fled the corridor.

  Behind them—

  "Come back again," Nevan called, laughter spilling freely now, with a light bow. "Anytime."

  The laughter followed them long after they were gone.

  The prison snapped back into place.

  Mee-Toh blinked once. His jaw tightened. Whatever had surfaced was already being buried.

  Zoe was still watching.

  Still hoping.

  He didn't look at her.

  Some truths didn't need witnesses. Not yet.

  His grip tightened around the clock keychain.

  Then a quiet, deliberate voice interrupted the moment.

  "Zoe," Noah said, fingers tightening around her wrist. "Stop."

  Zoe's eyes brimmed with tears. "Noah... please don't."

  He stepped closer, holding her gently but firmly. "Now you hear me. I can't watch you beg like this, Zoe. You're asking the wrong person." His tone sharpened, careful but insistent. "I'll do what I can. I'll find your answer—even if I don't have the power right now. I can still find a way."

  Zoe choked out a small sob, voice shaking. "I... I just..."

  Noah's grip didn't loosen. He gave her a firm shake of the shoulders, grounding her. "Enough. You don't have to."

  Mee-Toh stayed still as they left.

  Somewhere down the corridor, water dripped—slow and patient—metal ringing faintly each time it struck stone.

  The door didn't close behind them.

  The chains didn't move.

  And neither did he.

  ---

  Zoe's fingers lingered in Noah's as she let go, voice trembling.

  "Why... you didn't?"

  Noah's grip remained firm, but his eyes were steady.

  "You're not going back. We're leaving."

  Zoe shook her head, desperate, heart twisting.

  "Noah... for now. I can't remember Cecilia. I need to go back."

  He hesitated. Then, with a tight exhale:

  "Fine. Do whatever you want."

  Noah stepped back, sulking, his shoulders heavy as he retreated into the shadows.

  Zoe sank onto the cold floor later, trying to sleep, the weight of indecision pressing down. Her eyelids fluttered, exhausted, until the faintest light of 3:37 stirred her awake. Cecilia's tear-streaked face hovered above her.

  Zoe blinked, rubbing her eyes through sleep's fog.

  "Cecilia..."

  But what they saw made her blood freeze.

  The room they had chosen—the one they thought safe—was engulfed in fire. Flames licked walls, smoke curling into the night sky. In the center, Nevan sat, calm and smug, watching chaos bloom like a show. Around him, Harrick fumed, barely holding back a storm of rage. Mee-Toh moved with grim precision, directing reinforcement forces, his presence a cold anchor in the inferno.

  Bodies lay scattered. The screams of the fallen hung in the air, echoing through scorched halls. Harrick's father. Others they had known. Dead.

  Zoe's stomach turned as she saw a hand lying twisted near debris, a silent reminder of the destruction they couldn't undo. Harrick roared, sprinting toward Nevan, claws and fury unleashed.

  Mee-Toh intercepted him, grabbing him by the shoulder.

  "You wanna fight right now? Huh? Come on."

  Pain exploded in Harrick's knees as Mee-Toh twisted him aside, forcing him to stumble. His anger didn't diminish—it only sharpened.

  Mee-Toh scanned the remaining guards.

  "Anyone alive?"

  A soldier, voice tight:

  "Rarely... we blocked the way."

  Nevan's gaze flicked to Harrick, amusement radiating from his posture. He leaned back slightly, hands loose at his sides.

  "I thought you were going to take revenge on your enemy?"

  Mee-Toh sidestepped Nevan's smirk, jaw tight.

  "What kind of monster are you? Isn't he one of your friends? You failed at chameleon—even at changing color."

  Nevan's smile widened, teasing, unbothered.

  "Come on. I thought I was being judgmental and giving you a fair chance. It's rude not to appreciate it."

  Mee-Toh's eyes narrowed.

  "You know, in the end, I give reports to Dad, not you. So stop bothering me while I work."

  Behind them, Cecilia sobbed quietly. Zoe tried to move forward, but Cecilia clutched her arm.

  "They're going to kill you too... There's no one left to save."

  Zoe's voice wavered, but she tried to steady herself.

  "How... how did this happen?"

  Cecilia's voice cracked, trembling.

  "Their reinforcements... they came while everyone slept. Locked the doors. Burned it all. Because of you. I chose that room. But the place we left... my father... my brother..."

  Zoe's hands clenched.

  "We have to do something. They're going to kill Harrick too."

  Cecilia shook her head slowly, eyes wet.

  "Not all wars are won by standing alone. That wouldn't save us. We'd meet the same fate if we try."

  Nevan's head tilted slightly, as if the words had reached him. Mee-Toh's attention also flicked to the noise. Some guards followed, moving cautiously. Mee-Toh tensed, ready to act.

  Then, from behind Mee-Toh, Harrick lunged. Rage and grief burned in his eyes.

  "She was my sister, Cecilia! Get out of here!"

  He spun, fury aimed at Mee-Toh.

  "You smug... Darn yourself!"

  Mee-Toh reacted instantly. Harrick's knees buckled, blood staining his pants.

  Cecilia screamed, trying to reach him. Zoe surged forward, but a hand stopped her—strong, steady.

  Noah appeared just in time, dragging her back.

  "Go! Run!"

  Zoe's lips trembled.

  "Noah..."

  Cecilia tugged at Zoe.

  Noah's voice was firm but calm.

  "Go. Leave. She needs you. I'll find my way—I always do."

  Flames swallowed the rest. The chaos roared around them, and in that instant, survival became the only thought that mattered.

  ---

  Smoke curled into the night as fire devoured the building. Shadows twisted across the walls, painting chaos in every corner. Mora had just pulled back from a skirmish with Harrick's reinforcements, eyes scanning the inferno.

  Mee-Toh's voice cut through the din, low and precise.

  "That guy's alone. You blocked the way, right? So... you know what to do."

  Noah's eyes narrowed. Sparks flickered in his hands—small, controlled, subtle hints of his tricks. He wasn't powerless.

  Mora's brow arched as she watched him. Suddenly, Mee-Toh's allies lunged forward, attacking Noah directly. Mee-Toh froze for a heartbeat, genuinely surprised.

  "Wait! Hold up! What are you doing?" he barked, diving into the fray.

  Noah reacted instantly. Every movement was precise, unpredictable, leaving the attackers staggered, injured but alive. Mee-Toh grabbed one of them, steadying them.

  "Hope you're okay. Go—I'll handle him."

  The fight escalated. Sparks of flame reflected off steel. Debris rattled. Mee-Toh matched Noah strike for strike, each blow calculated, each counter precise. He realized quickly: Noah wasn't ordinary.

  A subtle, dangerous wave of energy spread across the place. Mee-Toh paused, sensing it. Before he could react fully, Nevan's voice cut across the chaos, smooth, teasing.

  "Seems it's time I step in."

  Mee-Toh blinked. In an instant, Nevan was beside him, deflecting a strike that would've overwhelmed him. The room tensed as the three—Mee-Toh, Noah, and Nevan—measured, struck, and countered, a deadly rhythm of skill, wit, and force.

  Noah's eyes flicked to Mee-Toh. A silent acknowledgment passed between them: this guy isn't normal either.

  Nevan leaned casually against debris, grinning, tilting his head.

  "How many fingers can you see?"

  Mee-Toh froze. Fire, chaos, near-deadly strikes—all paused for that absurd question.

  Without a word, he grabbed Nevan's hand, twisting it just enough to catch him off-guard.

  Nevan gasped, mock-innocent, voice soft and theatrical:

  "Aww... so sad. So... very sad. Alas, there's no joke."

  Mee-Toh's glare cut through the smoke.

  "The joke is you."

  He released Nevan and turned back to survey the battlefield. Fire roared. Debris smoldered. But for a split second, Nevan's ridiculous smugness was neutralized.

  Noah, slightly winded, gave a short nod to Mee-Toh. They didn't speak. The mutual understanding hung heavy: this fight was far from over, but survival was possible.

  Mee-Toh scanned the remaining fighters.

  "Call them back. Everyone regroup."

  A soldier hesitated.

  "What about the others?"

  Mee-Toh's jaw tightened.

  "I know where they're from. If they pose a threat... same fate as always."

  He turned, already moving.

  "We waste enough time. Move."