I dried off quickly and pulled on the clothes Doyle had left me. The sooner I was decent, the sooner I could get answers. And then the bathroom had fallen silent.

  As soon as I was dressed, I grabbed the sword. The change came instantly. My reflection in the mirror shifted back to the familiar lie. Red hair. Unmarked skin. The version of me everyone expected to see. I didn’t stop to admire it. I slipped out of the washroom, moved down the hall, and shut my bedroom door. My old clothes went down first, shoved against the gap beneath the door to muffle any sound.

  When I looked at the blade, the silver sheen drained away. The disguise peeled back, leaving the black metal I knew, dark and patient in my hands. My pulse picked up. I angled it toward the lamplight, finally letting myself look.

  There were more runes than before. Yet far fewer than I’d expected.

  Seven marked one side of the blade. Some were deep and heavy, carved as if they had always belonged there. Others looked brighter but shallow, their lines fine and sharp, like fresh cuts. The other side held four darker marks. The rune of holding sat close to the one I recognised, its shape echoing the medallion Jerald had given me. Or what was left of it.

  I traced the new patterns with my eyes, my grip tightening. What are you now?

  The blade hummed softly, a vibration felt more in my bones than my ears.

  “Child,” the voice said, quiet and close.

  I swallowed. “Yeah?”

  A pause stretched between us, heavy enough to press on my chest.

  “Who are you?”

  The question caught me off guard.

  I swallowed, the words feeling smaller as I said them aloud. “I’m Sean. Just a kid with a curse.”

  The answer felt thin even as I spoke it. The blade’s hum shifted, a subtle tightening that ran up my arm. Disapproval. Not anger. Something closer to annoyance.

  “Just a kid? Then… I will ask again,” the voice said. “What are you?”

  My brow furrowed. “Human,” I replied, slower now. “That’s it. I’m nothing special.”

  The vibration changed. Not disapproval. Confusion, maybe. I waited, studying the runes instead, letting my eyes follow their lines and depths. The blade was old. Older than any story I knew. Time probably meant something different to it. So, I stayed still and let the silence stretch.

  Just as I thought the conversation had ended, the voice returned.

  “I wish to show you something.”

  “Again?” I swallowed. “Like the dreams?”

  The blade hummed.

  “They are not dreams,” it said. “They are memories. Not mine… Belonging to those I have tasted.”

  Cold crept up my spine, slow and unwelcome, as the meaning settled in.

  “As to my question,” the voice continued, quieter now, “perhaps this memory will answer it for us both.”

  I hesitated. The words stirred too many thoughts at once. “Why are you showing me all of this?” I asked. “The memories. The visions.”

  “To guide us.”

  The word snagged. “Us?”

  The blade’s hum softened. Not weaker. Just… less sharp. “I was buried a long time,” it said. “Left in a shallow grave. I believed I had forgotten. I must remember.”

  There was something searching in its tone, a reach that fell short. The vastness I had felt before dulled, like an echo fading down a long corridor. It struck me then that these memories were not only for me. They were reminders. Anchors. A way for the blade to remember what it had been, and perhaps what it was not meant to become.

  Still, the weight of them felt like a warning pressing against my ribs.

  “Alright,” I said slowly. “Show me.”

  A low, gravelled sound rolled through my thoughts.

  “Good… Now, lie down. I will show you.”

  The runes could wait. Whatever the blade was, it was older than anything I could understand, and I didn’t resist its direction. I lay back on the bed with the sword resting across my chest and closed my eyes.

  Only then did I notice how tightly wound I had been. How long my muscles had stayed braced. Fear, tension, exhaustion all caught up with me at once. Days without a proper bed, a place to calm myself.

  The blade hummed, slow and steady, and I matched my breathing to it as the room slipped away.

  The darkness behind my eyes thinned, then broke apart. White marble flared into being, too bright, too clean. The court returned all at once. Voices crashed over one another. Shouts. Accusations. The scrape of sandals against stone.

  A finger stabbed toward me.

  I looked down and my stomach tightened. I was back inside One’s memory. The speech was over. My throat still burned with the effort of it, my chest tight with borrowed emotion.

  Belcus broke the chaos first. He hooked two fingers into his mouth and whistled, sharp and piercing. The sound cut through the chamber. The noise died mid-breath.

  Itchcus stood stiff as stone, his face darkening with rage. He slammed his fist into the marble bench, the crack echoing through the chamber.

  “The accused is guilty,” he roared. “A monster.” He pointed at the man bound at the centre of the floor. “What do you think we have been fighting for all this time?”

  “To keep the peace,” Belcus shot back. “Between all peoples.”

  “Exactly,” Itchcus snapped. “Which is why the monsters must be destroyed… before they destroy us.”

  Belcus’s expression hardened. “You call that peace? Slaughtering anyone who doesn’t fit your narrow definition of human? You turn disagreements into executions and call it justice.”

  “No! We simply don’t allow monsters to walk our lands,” Itchcus shouted, his face flushed red. His black robes swayed as he descended from the dais, each step measured and heavy. Chains rattled as he approached the prisoner, kicking them aside without care. He seized the hood and tore it back, intent burning in his eyes.

  White hair spilled free, catching the light. The man’s face was calm. Too calm. Handsome in a way that felt wrong for someone in irons. His expression held no fear, no outrage. Only a distant curiosity, as though the room itself were a puzzle he had not finished solving. His eyes kept moving, never settling for long.

  “Look at those who judge you,” Itchcus spat.

  He snatched a metal poker from one of the guards and struck the iron links at the man’s throat. The blow rang sharp and loud. The immortal turned his head at last, meeting the old man’s gaze for a single heartbeat. His lips curved into a hollow smile.

  Then he looked away again, eyes drifting back to the crowd, still searching for something else.

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  Murmurs rippled through the chamber, swelling as Itchcus continued to hurl his accusations. Voices overlapped, sharp and agitated. Belcus let the noise wash past him. He was no longer watching the magistrate. His gaze moved through the crowd, patient, searching.

  Then he found what he wanted.

  Belcus turned back toward the dais, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “Vaulter,” he called. “Do you have something to present to the court?”

  A man stepped forward from one of the side entrances. He moved with purpose, shoulders squared, and came to a halt with a crisp salute. Five soldiers followed behind him. They carried no weapons, but between them were two chests. One was small, banded with iron and marked by a long red sash. The other was massive, nearly the length of a man, its wood darkened to black.

  “Sir,” Vaulter said.

  His face gave nothing away. No pride. No hesitation. Only duty. But there was a tension in him, visible in the set of his jaw, as if he would rather be anywhere else. Orders were orders.

  Itchcus sneered down at the display. “And what is this meant to be?”

  “Proof,” Belcus answered smoothly. “That many of these so-called atrocities were not committed by the so-called monsters you accuse, but by those who seek to twist our lands for their own ends.”

  Itchcus’s brow creased. “Regardless of whatever trinkets you parade before us, his guilt is absolute. By his very nature. He will be judged not by soldiers or testimony, but by the gods themselves.”

  Belcus exhaled slowly, the weariness clear. “Even so,” he said. “What we place before you today may shed light on much that has plagued us of late.”

  The murmurs rose again. Protests. Unease. Belcus’s smile flickered wider for a heartbeat. He had expected this. He welcomed it.

  “Vaulter,” he said softly. “Show them.”

  Vaulter knelt beside the smaller chest while one of the soldiers steadied it. He loosened the red sash and lifted the lid with care. Even before it was fully open, a murmur passed through the room. Vaulter reached inside with a protective glove and drew out the dagger.

  The blade was crimson, not painted or stained, but darkly luminous, as if the colour lived beneath its surface. Vaulter held it up and moved slowly through the inner ring of the court, allowing the weapon to be seen from every angle.

  Some leaned forward, eyes narrowing as they tried to understand why this thing mattered. Others shifted uneasily, hands clasping and unclasping in their laps. A few looked away altogether. At the centre of it all, the accused watched. His gaze followed every flicker of reaction, sharp and intent, as though the crowd interested him more than the dagger itself.

  Itchcus laughed, sharp and ugly. “Is this some charlatan’s trick?” he scoffed. “You waste our time with a painted blade and call it evidence?”

  A surge of disgust rippled through Ones, thick and bitter. The stupid man stood before proof and still refused to see it. Faith had narrowed his world until there was no room left for reason.

  Belcus didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

  “This,” he said, calm and deliberate, “is the origin of the Red Death.”

  The words fell like a blow. Silence seized the chamber. Faces went rigid. Colour drained from some. Others set their jaws and looked away, unwilling to bend.

  “We all know the stories,” Itchcus sneered at last. “The lies whispered to children in the dark. This convinces no one with sense.” He spat onto the marble.

  “It’s real,” Belcus jabbed.

  Itchcus’s mouth curled. “And you can prove that?”

  Belcus turned his head a fraction. “Vaulter.”

  Vaulter moved to the larger chest, the red blade still held carefully in his hand. The guards broke the seal and the black wood creaked in protest. The smell struck first. Thick and cloying. Sweet with rot. It rolled across the chamber like something alive.

  The court reacted at once. Gasps broke free. Men recoiled, yanking their togas up over their mouths and noses. Others turned away, faces drawn tight as they swallowed bile.

  Vaulter gave a curt order. His men stepped in and together hauled something from the chest. It was stiff and heavy, wrapped in shadow and the stench of long decay. They lowered the body onto the marble floor at the centre of the chamber.

  It was a man. Or what had once been. His skin had dulled to a sickened grey, etched and marred with dark red scars that traced his limbs and chest in deliberate patterns. The marks were too precise to be wounds. Too purposeful.

  “How dare you,” Itchcus spat, his voice shaking as disgust overtook his fury. “How dare you defile this court with this… this abomination.”

  Vaulter did not look at him.

  He stepped closer to the corpse, the crimson dagger still cradled carefully in his gloved hand. His face had not changed, but there was tension there now, tight and controlled. He lowered his gaze to the dead man and spoke a single word.

  “Stand.”

  The dagger caught the light. Not brightly. Just enough.

  The corpse twitched.

  A ripple went through the chamber. Someone cried out. Others stumbled back as the body shuddered, joints cracking, muscles drawing tight where none should move. Slowly, impossibly, the corpse pushed itself upright.

  “This…” Itchcus breathed, his voice failing him.

  “This,” Belcus said calmly, “is the proof you demanded.”

  At the centre of the room, the accused smiled. His eyes followed the panic spreading through the court, attentive and almost amused, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.

  Vaulter returned the crimson dagger to its case with visible haste, as though the blade might lash out if given the chance. The lid shut with a dull thud, the red sash pulled tight once more.

  “And,” Itchcus said, his composure finally settling, “what of the other weapon. The black one.”

  The accused turned slowly.

  For the first time, something changed. His gaze fixed on the magistrate and a hard edge surfaced there. Not fear. Not surprise. Anger.

  Belcus went rigid. “The black one? Who told you…”

  “You will surrender it,” Itchcus cut in, his voice cold and final. “Along with...”

  A short laugh stopped him. The accused’s mouth pulled into a thin, empty smile. “It’s already here,” he said. Flat. Certain.

  The chamber held its breath.

  Vaulter’s eyes flicked to Belcus. Just for a moment. Long enough to betray the shock they both felt.

  Whatever deal had been made, it had been broken. And the pawn Belcus had hoped to use had just turned the board against him.

  Itchcus’s grin spread as he stepped toward the black chest. He waved the guards aside with a sharp flick of his hand, dismissing them as if they were dogs. Before anyone could stop him, he reached inside and drew out a long shape wrapped in a dark shroud.

  The cloth fell away.

  The black blade emerged into the light.

  He lifted it high, fingers clenched tight around the hilt. Triumph and greed lit his face, bright and hungry.

  Then his expression twisted.

  The smile collapsed into a gasp. His knees buckled and he crashed down onto the marble floor, clutching the blade as pain tore through him. The chamber erupted. Shouts, cries, bodies pressing in from every side. Some rushed toward him in alarm. Others recoiled, shouting curses.

  Itchcus tried to release the weapon. His fingers wouldn’t obey. He slammed the tip down into the marble in desperation. Stone cracked as the blade bit deep and stood upright, anchoring him in place. He clawed at his own arm, trying to tear it free, breath breaking into panicked sobs.

  The immortal didn’t move. He stood silent as the chains at his throat rattled, a soft metallic sound beneath Itchcus’s rising scream. The cry tore through the chamber, raw and desperate, rebounding off the white stone until it seemed to fill every corner.

  Across the room, men surged toward the centre while others scattered in panic. But a handful broke the wrong way. Instead of rushing to Itchcus’s side, they lunged for Vaulter and the red chest.

  Belcus swore and ran, robes flaring as he forced his way through the crowd. I chased after him.

  The court collapsed into chaos. Fists struck flesh. Shouts blurred into noise. Whatever order had ruled the chamber moments before was crushed beneath fear and desperation.

  “Stop them,” Belcus shouted, his voice cutting through the din.

  Red flashed from beneath a robe.

  Vaulter barely had time to register the movement before the crimson dagger cut through the air where his throat had been a heartbeat earlier. He fell back hard, boots skidding on marble, the blade passing close enough for its heat to kiss his skin.

  One of the soldiers moved on instinct. Unarmed and terrified, he lunged for the attacker. He never saw the second blade. Another robed figure stepped in behind him and drove a red dagger into his back.

  “Gods,” Belcus swore.

  The wounded soldier convulsed. His skin twisted and darkened as red scars crawled across him like living things. His eyes flooded with colour, turning a solid, violent crimson. He straightened and turned, no longer looking at Belcus or the crowd.

  He looked at Vaulter.

  I didn’t think. I moved. My fist connected with the soldier’s jaw, the impact jarring up my arm. He barely reacted, but it was enough. Vaulter scrambled to his feet as Belcus seized one of the attackers by the wrist and snapped it with a sharp crack. The dagger clattered across the floor.

  Behind us, Itchcus collapsed. Those closest rushed to him, shouting, pleading, but his screams had already faded. His skin had gone grey, slack and lifeless.

  I twisted aside as another crimson blade hissed past my ribs, close enough that I felt the rush of air against my skin. Belcus was there a heartbeat later, wrenching an iron rod from a fallen guard and swinging it in a wide arc. The blow cracked against bone and drove the robed figure back, buying us a sliver of space.

  It didn’t last.

  The first controlled soldier was on me. I struck him again, pouring everything I had into it. My knuckles rang with pain. He barely reacted. No flinch. No breath knocked loose. Just those red-scarred eyes locking onto me with borrowed hunger.

  Vaulter moved without hesitation. He snatched up the fallen dagger and hurled it across the chamber. The blade struck dead centre, sinking into the soldier’s chest with a wet thud. The body jerked, staggered once, then collapsed.

  Relief surged through me. I turned, mouth already opening to thank him.

  That was when I saw the red flash behind Vaulter.

  Too close. Too fast.

  I had no time to shout.

  The knife drove into his side.

  “No,” Belcus shouted, lunging forward.

  A body slammed into him from the side, cutting him off as the court dissolved further into screams and blood.

  A heartbeat later the soldier I had struck was back on me. Then another. Hands grabbed at my arms, my shoulders, the chains biting into my skin as more bodies piled in. Old men in robes, their dead faces etched with fresh red scars, closed around us in a tightening ring.

  “Shit,” I breathed. “How many are there…”

  A fist smashed into my cheek. Light burst behind my eyes. Someone wrenched my arm back and forced me to the floor. I struggled, breath knocked loose, as a young blond man loomed over me. White robes. Crimson dagger clenched tight. His face was tight with panic, eyes wide as he raised the blade.

  The chains rattled.

  The sound cut through the chaos like a bell.

  Stone cracked. Men screamed. Metal links struck the floor and scattered.

  The immortal stood free.

  He glanced once at Belcus, a faint, almost amused curve to his mouth. His lips moved in a silent word of thanks. Then he turned.

  What followed was not a fight. It was a culling.