Kael and Girren followed the old man almost blindly.

  The passages changed in rapid succession—narrowing, splitting, converging again—until Kael completely lost his sense of direction. The tunnels dipped, veered sideways, twisted, and bent at strange angles—more like a labyrinth than any deliberately designed system. The stone was ancient, damp in places, carrying the smell of dust, moisture, and something metallic.

  The old man walked confidently, without looking back, as if he knew this path by heart.

  Kael held on, but it grew harder with every step. Each sharp movement sent a flare of pain through his chest—his ribs aching, stabbing, as if something inside were slowly breaking apart. Heat rose in waves; his breathing grew deeper and heavier, and a dull pounding echoed in his temples.

  And yet… he was smiling.

  By sheer miracle, he had escaped the Vengeful Thunder Family’s mansion, nearly leaving his life behind. And as if that weren’t enough, only moments earlier the old man had told him that his entire family was now under the protection of the Forsaken Brotherhood.

  That thought nearly dispelled his remaining anxiety, a quiet warmth spreading through his chest.

  As they walked, Kael replayed what had happened in his mind without slowing his pace—no panic now, just cold, focused clarity.

  “The Brotherhood… and the Hall,” he noted to himself. “They took an enormous risk for my sake.”

  An explosion, an open provocation of an Elder, the intervention of several powerful figures, a direct strike against one of the Three Families. It was far too costly a move—too brazen, too dangerous.

  Kael narrowed his eyes.

  “My past merits aren’t enough to justify a risk like that.” The thought was clear, uncomfortably precise. “Almost certainly, they’ve begun to suspect that I know far more than I let on.”

  Not just a lucky boy with a rare talent. Something more. Something that made such a massive gamble worthwhile.

  He exhaled quietly, feeling another wave of pain roll through his chest.

  “After this escape, a quiet life is no longer an option,” he stated without self-pity. “At least… not until my allies grow stronger than the Three Families.”

  The thought was heavy, but not frightening. If anything, it was sobering rather than frightening.

  “I won’t be able to stay in the shadows anymore. If I want revenge on Zeiran, I’ll have to reveal part of my abilities. Start acting more boldly.”

  Kael clenched his teeth and quickened his pace, refusing to fall even half a step behind the old man. If his former life was over, then a new one was beginning ahead—and it would demand that caution be replaced with predation.

  At that very moment, they turned sharply into another side passage—and came up against a dead end.

  The old man pulled out a flat metal token and, without a word, pressed it to the wall. The stone shuddered for an instant; space rippled—and a door revealed itself before them.

  “Inside,” he said curtly, opening it.

  The old man’s frosty mana surged forward, slamming into Kael’s and Girren’s backs. The moment they stepped through, the door slammed shut behind them, wavered like a mirage, and turned back into an ordinary stone wall.

  “Follow me,” the old man said curtly from within and strode ahead.

  They took several dozen more steps—and the tunnel abruptly ended.

  Ahead, the space opened wide.

  Before them lay the lair of the Forsaken Brotherhood.

  A spherical underground cavern, reinforced with stone and metal, illuminated by countless magical lamps. Walkways, staircases, galleries at different levels. People in simple clothes, but with sharp, alert eyes. Mages, craftsmen, fighters—each busy with their own task. Life was palpable here—movement, purpose, a hidden yet well-oiled system.

  Girren froze.

  His eyes widened, his breath hitched. He slowly turned his head, trying to grasp the scale of what he was seeing. To him, this place looked like something that simply should not exist in Lasthold—a secret city beneath another city.

  But Kael was struck by something else entirely.

  Not far from the entrance, in the glow of soft magical lights, stood people he recognized instantly. Despite the exhaustion, the unfamiliar clothes, and the strain etched into their faces.

  It was his family.

  For a moment, the world lost its sharpness. The noise of the lair receded; the pain in his chest became secondary, and his heart clenched so tightly it stole his breath. A smile spread across his face, and overwhelming relief washed over him.

  The moment their eyes met, it was as if the world paused.

  For one brief instant, the Brotherhood’s lair fell silent. Footsteps, voices, all of it retreated, leaving only them.

  And in the very next second, a cry rang out, merging into one:

  “Son!”

  Kassias and Mira lunged forward almost simultaneously, forgetting everything else. Right behind them rushed Kris, her eyes wide, tears already glistening.

  Kael didn’t have time to step toward them or say a single word.

  They wrapped him in an embrace from all sides. And his father’s hug was especially tight.

  Pain exploded in his chest like a blinding discharge. His ribs screamed in protest, as if they’d been bent just a little further.

  “Kghaaah!” A pained cry tore free.

  His face twisted; his breath faltered, and he barely managed to stay on his feet.

  Mira immediately recoiled, going pale.

  “Son?!” Fear crept into her voice. “What’s wrong?! Are you hurt? Where are you wounded?!”

  Kael grimaced but managed a smile, carefully lifting his hands and gently—yet insistently—urging everyone back half a step.

  “Easy…” he breathed, pain threading through his voice. “I’m fine. Nothing…” He coughed, suppressing a wince. “Nothing life-threatening.”

  Mira didn’t believe him for a moment. She stepped closer, pressed her palm to his forehead, and cried out at once:

  “You’re burning up!” Her voice trembled. “Kael, you have a fever! You’re pale as a sheet!”

  Kassias frowned as well, examining his son closely—the look of a man accustomed to the aftermath of wounds and exhaustion.

  “You need rest,” he said firmly. “And a healer. Immediately. You look terrible, son.”

  Kael gave a crooked, tired smirk, but the relief shining in his eyes was impossible to hide.

  “The important thing is that I’m alive,” he replied quietly. “And that you’re all right…”

  Nearby, Kris finally stepped forward and carefully touched his shoulder, as if checking whether he was really there.

  “I…” Her voice broke. “I thought you—”

  Kael looked at his sister and, for the first time, simply stroked her head in reassurance.

  Off to the side, Girren stood frozen, unsure where to put his hands or his eyes.

  He took a step back, then another—awkwardly, almost furtively, as if afraid of disturbing something fragile. His eyes kept drifting back to Kael and his family. To the mother who still couldn’t tear her anxious gaze away. To the father standing close. To the sister clinging to her brother as if he might vanish again.

  Something unpleasant pricked at his chest.

  “Why can’t I look away?” a strange thought flickered. “And why… does my chest feel so tight?”

  It was a strange, lingering sensation. Not envy and not anger. More like emptiness, suddenly exposed where others had something solid and real. Something he had never had—and perhaps never would.

  Girren clenched his teeth and was about to look away.

  But at that very moment, he felt someone else’s attentive gaze settle on him.

  Kassias, who had been focused on his son the entire time, finally lifted his head and looked to the side. His gaze was calm, appraising—not hostile, but not indifferent either.

  “Kael,” he said, nodding toward Girren. “And who’s this young man?”

  The question was simple, without pressure, but Girren tensed involuntarily.

  Kael turned at once. The smile on his face softened, turning sincere, free of pain and exhaustion—if only for a moment.

  “This is Girren,” he said without any flourish, as if introducing an old friend. “If not for him…” Kael let out a breath. “I would most likely be dead.”

  The moment those words left Kael’s lips, something happened that Girren hadn’t expected at all.

  Kassias stepped forward sharply.

  Without hesitation or pause, wearing the expression of a man who had made an instant, irrevocable decision, he stopped right in front of Girren and held out his hand.

  Girren froze.

  For a fraction of a second, he simply stared at the outstretched palm, not fully understanding how to react. His hands tensed on their own, his shoulders twitched slightly—too many years of expecting a trick lived inside him. But forcing himself, he reached out and took the hand in return.

  Kassias gripped it firmly—truly firmly.

  “Thank you, Girren,” he said seriously, without a trace of pathos or performative gratitude in his voice.

  And before Girren could say anything, Kassias’s other hand came to rest on his shoulder. Heavy, steady—and unexpectedly warm. Something in Girren’s chest gave a painful twitch at the gesture.

  “We’re simple people,” Kassias continued, his voice softer now. “And I don’t know how I can repay you for this.”

  “But I can promise one thing,” he added. “In our home, you will always be a welcome guest.”

  He turned to Mira, and a familiar, almost homely smile appeared on his face.

  “That’s right!” he exclaimed and laughed loudly, so loudly it felt out of place in the moment.

  Meeting Girren’s eyes again, he squeezed his shoulder a little tighter.

  “My wife’s cooking is simply divine!” he declared with that same easy confidence that made it impossible not to smile. “And now you’ll get it for free. Whenever you want!”

  And, misjudging his strength, he clapped Girren on the back.

  “Kh!” Girren winced involuntarily in pain, but even that couldn’t erase the confusion from his face.

  Kassias, not noticing, added good-naturedly:

  “Quite a deal, Girren. Don’t you think?”

  Girren stood there, unsure where to put his eyes. Kael’s father seemed strange to him and even stirred an unexpected sense of shame. Yet for some reason, that strange interaction warmed something in his chest.

  He didn’t have time to gather his thoughts before Mira snapped:

  “Have you completely lost your mind, dear?!” she shouted so loudly that even Kassias flinched. “You’re valuing our son’s life… with food?!”

  She briskly, almost angrily, adjusted Kael’s cloak on his shoulders, then straightened and moved toward Girren with resolve.

  He tensed instinctively.

  Mira stopped right in front of him and, giving him no time to react, took his hand in both of hers. Her fingers trembled, her eyes shone with tears she didn’t even try to hide.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, but in a way that made every word hit its mark. “Thank you for bringing my son back.”

  Girren felt his breath catch.

  “If there’s anything at all we can do for you…” Mira’s voice faltered, but she immediately pulled herself together. “Anything. Just say the word. We will always help.”

  Such a direct, warm gesture made Girren flinch. He felt heat flood his cheeks and looked away in embarrassment.

  “N-no…” he blurted out awkwardly. “What are you… really, there’s no need…”

  He jerked slightly, as if trying to free his hand, but Mira held on firmly—not possessively, but with genuine sincerity.

  Girren shot a quick, almost pleading glance at Kael, as if looking for rescue, and hurriedly added:

  “In a way…” He swallowed. “Kael saved me too. So… you don’t owe me a thing.”

  For a moment, silence hung in the air.

  Kassias snorted and folded his arms across his chest, and looked down at them with that familiar expression where respect and stubbornness mingled.

  “You’re a good lad, Girren,” he muttered.

  Mira finally released Girren’s hand, wiped her tears with the back of her palm, and took a deep breath.

  “All right,” she said more gently. “We’ll talk about this later. You both need to see a healer.”

  At that moment, Kael was already leaning on Kris. She was holding him firmly, almost stubbornly, as if afraid that the moment she let go, he’d collapse. He felt it and didn’t resist—he only tilted his head slightly, letting her offer her shoulder.

  He gave Girren a tired smile and said with a quiet chuckle:

  “My parents… can be a bit loud and impulsive. Don’t take it too personally.”

  Kris merely shook her head as if in agreement and squeezed her brother’s hand even tighter.

  Kael turned his gaze to the old man standing a little apart and added more seriously:

  “Elder, we really could use a healer.” He paused to catch his breath. “I’d be grateful if you could patch Girren and me up.”

  The old man didn’t answer right away.

  He had already turned and started walking forward, as if the decision had already been made before the question was asked. Only after a couple of steps did he nod, without looking back, and curtly say, “Come.”

  After taking a few more steps, he added more calmly:

  “Call me Heirven.”

  And only once they had started moving after him did Kael finally allow himself to look around.

  The Brotherhood’s den was now strikingly different from how he had seen it on the Day of Winter. Back then it had been almost empty; now the space felt alive.

  Mages—at first glance plain, simply dressed, without marks of status—stood in groups or leaned against railings. But if one looked closer, it became clear: their auras were dense, steady, and precisely controlled. Not flashy strength, but the kind tempered by years.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Eyes were inevitably drawn to Kael.

  Some watched with open curiosity, others with respect, others with cheerful surprise. A few people even smiled as he passed.

  “Hey, kid!” came a shout from one of the walkways. “You’re not bad, kid! You got the boss to turn all of Lasthold upside down over you!”

  “Heirven,” someone else called out, “how did it go?”

  The old man didn’t slow his pace. He only raised a hand without turning around and grumbled irritably:

  “I don’t know yet. Hold off on the questions.”

  Girren walked a little behind the others, lagging slightly. Not out of stubbornness—his body still didn’t obey him well, and inside he still felt like an outsider, out of place in this lively, noisy setting. He unconsciously drew his shoulders in, as if expecting someone to call out to him the wrong way at any moment.

  Noticing this, Kassias snorted and, without ceremony, nudged Girren in the back with his palm.

  “Why are you so tense?” he said loudly and good-naturedly. “Don’t worry. Mostly, people here are good.”

  “Mostly?!” immediately came a voice from somewhere above. “And who didn’t you like, Kassias?”

  Kassias didn’t hesitate for a second. He craned his head up and barked back:

  “You! Too talkative!”

  For a second, silence hung—and then laughter rang out from several parts of the den. The atmosphere instantly became even livelier, even warmer.

  Girren blinked, looking around in confusion, then involuntarily let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  Kael, watching this from the side, gave a crooked smile.

  “My father, true to form,” he noted to himself with quiet irony. “Already managed to make friends with everyone… or pick a fight—depends on how you look at it.”

  At that moment, Heirven turned aside and beckoned them closer with a gesture.

  They approached an alchemical nook—a spacious, well-lit area with a massive cauldron, tables cluttered with mortars, flasks, and bundles of herbs. Shelves along the walls were packed with jars, vials, and strange ingredients.

  A woman immediately came toward them.

  A chubby woman in her forties, with a rounded belly and an impressive bust, yet a surprisingly soft, kind face. Her eyes shone with attentive warmth, and her movements were quick and confident—like someone accustomed to dealing with pain and wounds.

  She swept her gaze over Kael and Girren—and immediately threw up her hands.

  “There’s barely a spot on you that isn’t injured,” she muttered, already taking them by the elbows. “Sit down. Both of you. Quickly.”

  She seated them almost by force, not allowing any protest, and deftly produced several pills, a couple of vials filled with a thick liquid, and a small jar of ointment.

  “To start with—this,” she said briskly, handing them the pills and two elixirs.

  Kael and Girren exchanged glances, but didn’t argue and swallowed them almost simultaneously.

  Not even a second passed before the woman placed her palms on their backs.

  “Don’t resist my mana,” she warned calmly.

  And immediately pushed it into them.

  A soft, warm energy spread through Kael’s and Girren’s bodies, moving through them layer by layer, as if carefully and unhurriedly examining every bone, every organ. The pain in Kael’s chest answered with a dull echo but didn’t intensify—on the contrary, it felt as if someone had gently touched the inflamed spot, committing it to memory.

  After a few seconds, the woman narrowed her eyes, as if comparing what she felt, and first lightly patted Girren on the back.

  “You’ll recover quickly,” she said confidently. “Strong constitution overall. There’s exhaustion, but nothing critical.”

  Girren didn’t immediately realize she was talking about him. He nodded awkwardly, as if unsure how to respond properly to such words, and breathed a little more freely.

  Then her attention returned to Kael.

  But now she didn’t pat him—on the contrary, her movements were cautious, almost tender, stroking his back and shoulder as if afraid that an extra touch might cause pain. The woman sighed and shook her head.

  “And you, dear,” she said more sternly, “will have to stay in bed for about a week. At best. Even with my pills and elixirs, I won’t be able to put you back together anytime soon.”

  She shot him a pointed look.

  “Three ribs are broken, and there’s a fracture in the bone of your right arm. And your mana is severely depleted… I’m surprised you’re still on your feet.”

  Kael gave a weak smile, accepting her words without protest.

  “Alive,” he said lightly, as far as the pain allowed. “That’s already good. Thank you.”

  She was about to continue speaking when a sudden noise rose behind them.

  Voices fell silent one by one; footsteps quickened, and the den’s general attention sharply shifted to a single point. Kael felt it almost physically, like a sudden change in air pressure.

  Everyone turned.

  From the main passage, the Black Rat and Riada approached with quick, confident steps.

  Their appearance had an immediate effect. People were distracted from their tasks; some straightened up, some jumped down from the walkways, some simply turned. Members of the Brotherhood followed the Black Rat, converging and forming a semicircle around the healer’s area.

  As she approached, the Black Rat visibly exhaled. The tension she had carried since the beginning of the operation finally cracked.

  “Thank the gods…” she murmured softly, almost to herself. “You’re alive.”

  She stopped nearby, quickly scanning Kael and trying to appear calm, though a flicker of worry passed deep in her eyes. Then, without wasting time, she asked more sharply:

  “Why the hell did Zeiran take you?” she frowned. “Did he really find out about your miraculous mana elixir?”

  Kael winced, but forced himself to sit up, straightening as much as his ribs allowed. He didn’t want to look helpless—at least not now.

  “You don’t need to worry,” he replied calmly. “He got nothing out of me.”

  Then, after a brief hesitation, he bowed slightly—holding back the pain, but with sincere intent.

  “Thank you,” he added more seriously. “If not for the chaos you caused… and if not for the help of that mage in black…” Kael exhaled. “Within a few days, I would have been dead.”

  Riada sharply raised her eyebrows.

  “Dead?” she repeated, and for the first time genuine surprise broke through in her voice. “What are you talking about, Kael? What possible purpose could there have been in your death?”

  The Black Rat frowned as well, fixing him with an intent stare. The relief was gone from her eyes, replaced by confusion and a growing unease.

  Kael slowly straightened his back as much as he could and looked directly at Riada.

  The thought that Riada stood on the same side as the Forsaken Brotherhood flickered at the edge of his awareness. It was surprising. But now was not the time for questions.

  He pressed his lips together and said flatly, “Zeiran has gone mad.” A short but heavy pause followed. “He was going to sacrifice me to the Gods.”

  The space around them grew quieter.

  “Every day,” Kael continued, not looking away, “he collected my blood. For some kind of ancient ritual.”

  …and almost at once, Kael realized he had said too much.

  Mira, who had been standing a little to the side, went pale so abruptly it was as if all strength had been ripped out of her at once. Her fingers clenched convulsively around the edge of her cloak, her breathing faltered, and she swayed, barely keeping her balance.

  “Mom…” burst out of Kris, who immediately caught her by the elbow.

  Kael winced, feeling something tighten unpleasantly inside him. He remembered too late that his family wasn’t used to seeing him like this.

  “I’m sorry,” he added quickly, softer now, quieter. “Let’s… let’s talk about this somewhere private.”

  The Black Rat and Riada exchanged a glance—brief, wordless—and almost simultaneously nodded.

  “I agree,” Riada said. “This isn’t the place for such conversations.”

  Kael turned to his family and, before anyone could object, said softly but firmly:

  “Please take care of Girren.” He held his father’s gaze. “He’s having a hard time right now.”

  Kassias understood the tone immediately and gave a short nod.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll handle it.”

  With that, Kael didn’t hesitate any longer. He rose with obvious effort and, together with the Black Rat and Riada, headed for the spiral staircase leading to the Black Rat’s “den.”

  ? ? ?

  Only a few minutes passed before they entered the Black Rat’s private office.

  The door closed behind them, and the click of the lock sounded unexpectedly loud.

  Kael almost immediately lowered himself into a chair, grimacing at the pain in his ribs. The two women remained standing opposite him. It was obvious they were demanding answers. Each was thinking about which question to ask first.

  Even so, Kael spoke first.

  “I heard Magister Priscilla’s voice. Is she all right?”

  Riada frowned, folding her arms across her chest.

  “She bought us time for the diversion effort,” she replied after a brief pause. “Very risky. And very… demonstrative.”

  The Black Rat gave a quiet snort but didn’t intervene.

  “Most likely,” Riada continued, “Zeiran will try to put pressure on her. And the Council of Elders will likely look the other way.” She looked Kael straight in the eyes. “But Priscilla isn’t so easily broken. She should be fine.”

  Kael slowly nodded, as if another invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  “Good,” he said quietly. “Then… we can continue.”

  The Black Rat was about to speak when she suddenly narrowed her eyes.

  Her gaze slid over Kael—not over his wounds, but deeper still. His aura had changed, and so had the amount of mana within it.

  She froze.

  “Kael…” she murmured incredulously, and for the first time in a long while genuine uncertainty crept into her voice. “Don’t tell me you’ve… broken through to the Steel Mage stage already?”

  The words hung in the air.

  Riada reacted at once. Her eyes narrowed, then widened as she, too, began to scrutinize him.

  “What?” she breathed. “That’s impossible. Just recently you couldn’t absorb mana at all. Your body…” she faltered, “it was closed. How is that even possible?”

  The room fell silent. Too silent.

  Kael exhaled heavily and lowered his gaze for a moment. He understood it immediately—any further evasion would be either extremely difficult or completely pointless. Too many things no longer added up.

  He raised his eyes.

  “I used a forbidden technique,” he said calmly, though a note of weariness crept into his voice.

  The Black Rat slowly straightened.

  “Forbidden…” she repeated quietly.

  “That technique nearly killed me,” Kael continued bluntly. “But there was no other way. I had to break through in order to form a contract with a spirit. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it out of the dungeon.”

  Both women froze.

  Riada parted her lips as if about to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Her gaze darted—from Kael to his aura, then to his hand, then to his chest—as though she were trying to reconstruct her entire understanding of the world in a single instant.

  “You…” she finally forced out. “You’re saying you pulled this off while you were Zeiran’s prisoner?”

  Disbelief, professional fascination, and an almost superstitious fear mingled in her voice.

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?” slipped out before she could stop herself.

  The Black Rat’s expression hardened as well.

  She looked at Kael as though seeing him properly for the first time—not as a valuable asset, not as a pawn or an ally, but as an unknown variable. As something that lay beyond her familiar calculations.

  “Kael,” she said quietly. “What you’re telling us now goes far beyond anything considered normal.”

  For a moment, something in the room shifted.

  Kael’s eyes flared with a deep, mystical gleam. The amber light within them grew denser, more saturated, as if it were not merely a reflection of mana but the echo of something far greater. It was impossible to look into that gaze as one would into the eyes of a youth. It carried decades—of pain, decisions, losses, and knowledge he simply could not have possessed here and now.

  An involuntary chill ran down Riada’s spine.

  She flinched almost imperceptibly, not fully understanding why. It wasn’t pressure, nor a threat, nor a surge of power—rather, the sensation that, for a fleeting instant, an entirely different scale of being had been revealed before her.

  Kael drew a deep breath.

  When he spoke, his voice was even, calm, free of strain—and for that very reason it carried immense weight.

  “I am Kael, son of Kassias,” he said firmly. “I was born in Lasthold. My family is here. This is my home.”

  He looked first at Riada, then at the Black Rat, never averting his gaze.

  “And I will do everything,” he continued, “to make life in Lasthold better. Not for the Families. Not for the Council. For the people. Of that, you can be absolutely certain.”

  He paused briefly, then added with utter seriousness:

  “I can swear this on my soul. Just as I swear that I am your ally to the end.”

  The words settled heavily—not like a threat, but like a promise a man was prepared to pay any price to keep.

  Then a different glint flickered in his amber gaze.

  Dangerous. Sharp. Predatory.

  “But,” Kael went on, his voice turning slightly colder, “I cannot speak of my secrets. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

  The silence in the office thickened.

  Even the Black Rat did not respond at once. She studied Kael intently, as though weighing not only his words, but the consequences of any next step.

  Inside, Kael was perfectly composed.

  “A cautious strategy won’t work anymore,” he noted coldly to himself. “If I want my family to live in safety… I can’t remain in the shadows any longer.”

  Those words seemed to tear away the final inner barrier.

  The emotions Kael had held back by sheer force of will flared all at once. Something dark, hot, dangerous surged up in his chest—a craving that should have shattered the mind of any ordinary boy.

  A thirst for killing.

  The kind that could never belong to a teenager raised in anything resembling safety. It was the feeling of someone who had endured immense suffering and pain.

  The amber light in his eyes darkened for a moment.

  “You risked your lives for me,” Kael continued quietly, yet each word seemed to hammer itself into the air. “Which means… I can trust you fully.”

  The Black Rat tensed.

  She didn’t take a step back, but her shoulders drew in almost imperceptibly, and when she spoke, her voice was cautious.

  “Where are you going with this, Kael?”

  “I’m not the first person they decided to kill on a whim. Zeiran must pay for his crimes,” he replied calmly. “As must the other Elders who decided that Lasthold is their personal property.”

  Riada inhaled sharply, but didn’t interrupt.

  Kael narrowed his eyes, and there was no doubt left in that gaze.

  “But for that,” he added, “our alliance will need real power. Not scattered strikes. Not temporary partnerships.” He tilted his head slightly. “What do you think?”

  And the moment those words were spoken, silence once again settled over the office.

  The Black Rat and Riada exchanged looks—and this time, their gazes lingered longer than usual. The same thought struck them almost simultaneously. They both thought of Magister Duran.

  A man who had stagnated for years… and then suddenly began to advance at a breakneck pace. All thanks to a “mysterious ally.”

  And both of them were becoming increasingly convinced that this very “mysterious ally” was now sitting right in front of them.

  “Could it be…” Riada began and faltered, then finished anyway, almost in a whisper. “Was it you who helped Duran…?”

  Kael didn’t dodge the question.

  “Rather,” he said evenly, “I showed him the way. And gave him a more suitable tool.”

  Riada swallowed nervously.

  Now many things were falling into place. And that realization sent a chill down her spine—not from fear, but from sheer scale. From understanding that Kael’s figure was far more mysterious and far deeper than they could have ever imagined.

  Kael, seemingly oblivious to their stunned looks, shifted slightly in his chair, carefully changing position so his ribs wouldn’t flare with sharp pain.

  “The Forsaken Brotherhood is already capable of brewing improved mana elixirs,” he continued casually, as if discussing something obvious. “Even that alone is enough to accelerate your growth significantly.”

  He paused briefly, watching their reactions, then allowed himself a light, almost friendly smile.

  “But that’s only the beginning,” Kael added. “If I help you determine your Soul Form and select an appropriate magic canon…” his amber eyes narrowed slightly, “your power will grow far faster—several times over.”

  The words were spoken far too calmly for what he was offering.

  Silence hung in the office.

  From Priscilla, they already knew that something similar had once happened to Magister Duran. And after those events, the old man had thrown himself headlong into training, as if he’d grown decades younger. Lately, he had even believed that he could break through to the rank of Jade Mage.

  And now Kael was stating outright that he could do something similar for them.

  The Black Rat slowly exhaled.

  Riada felt something inside her click coldly into place, assembling into a single, coherent picture.

  They both thought the same thing.

  All this time, a wolf in sheep’s clothing had been standing before them. A calculating, patient predator hiding in the shadows.

  But most importantly—this beast was on their side.

  ? ? ?

  At that very same moment, far from the Brotherhood’s lair, the mansion of the Vengeful Thunder Family finally fell silent.

  The fire had been extinguished. The guards returned to their posts, the wounded were carried away, and the damaged halls were hastily patched up, as if trying to erase the very fact of what had happened. Even Priscilla left the mansion calmly, formally committing to appear before the Council of Elders at first light.

  Everyone believed that the worst had been avoided.

  Everyone—except Zeiran.

  He sat in the spacious hall, nervously pounding his foot against the stone floor as fury steadily mounted. The rhythm was uneven and vicious, betraying the storm raging within him.

  “Damn it!” he roared.

  His fist crashed down onto the massive table. The wood didn’t hold—the table exploded into splinters, as if it were made of rotten wood. A wave of mana rolled through the hall, and lightning crawled across Zeiran’s body, crackling and flashing in the air.

  He was breathing heavily.

  His eyes burned with rage, lightning struck the floor, carving grooves into the stone. There wasn’t a soul around—no servants, no guards. Everyone was deathly afraid of being caught by Zeiran in his fury.

  The old man slowly rose.

  His teeth clenched so hard his jaw audibly creaked, and a single thought churned in his mind, poisoned by humiliation and malice: “Kanzan… That damn dog failed to stop the boy.”

  His hand clenched into a fist on its own, and lightning leapt from his fingers, striking a column and leaving a black scorch mark on the stone.

  “Once he regains consciousness…” The thought was cold, calculating, and truly cruel. “I’ll torture him to death myself.”

  Zeiran jerked, as if the words in his head demanded release, and, with a furious snarl, smashed his fist into the back of a chair. The wood cracked, unable to withstand the blow, and the chair shattered, its fragments scattering at his feet.

  “Pathetic worm!” he spat, his voice choking with rage. “You managed to cause me even more trouble than your father!”

  Girren’s face rose before his mind’s eye—and it only poured fuel on the fire. Zeiran grimaced, as if bitterness coated his tongue, and hissed venomously:

  “I should have strangled you back in childhood. Sent you after your greedy father.”

  Another wave of lightning rippled through his body, his fingers trembled, and his breath tore from his chest in ragged gasps. He paced slowly across the hall, leaving dark scorch marks on the stone floor where stray discharges struck.

  “I was so close…” he whispered, barely hearing his own voice. “So close.”

  Anger flared again—this time cold and cutting.

  “How did that brat even manage to escape?!”

  Zeiran strode toward the exit, his steps echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling. At the door, he slowed, his lips curling into a hard, dangerous smirk.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “There’s nowhere to run in Lasthold. I’ll find you.”

  And then, with poison in his voice, he added:

  “But first, I’ll deal with that old hag Priscilla and the Forsaken Brotherhood.”

  The thought crystallized clearly, without hesitation: “I don’t know whether you’re connected, but each of you had a hand in stealing what was mine. You won’t get away from me so easily.”

  The door burst open.

  Beyond the threshold, stood Kargos, as if waiting for that very moment. He flinched when he saw his father’s face twisted with rage and hurriedly bowed his head.

  “Father…” he forced out uncertainly. “How are you?”

  Zeiran fixed him with a stare—cold, heavy, stripped of any familial warmth.

  “See to it,” he said slowly, deliberately, “that by morning we have grounds to accuse Priscilla of collusion with the Forsaken Brotherhood. Those rats have been begging for extermination for a long time.”

  Kargos went pale.

  “B-but… what grounds?” he began cautiously.

  “Doesn’t matter what kind,” Zeiran snapped. “Fabricate evidence. Information. Testimonies. Anything we can slam down on the Council of Elders’ table.”

  He stepped closer, looming over his son.

  “I’ll let that old witch rot alive,” he finished quietly, almost calmly.

  Kargos nodded frantically, not daring to argue.

  Zeiran walked past him without looking back. The rage inside him hadn’t faded—it had merely changed form, becoming cold and purposeful. No longer a flare, but a promise to himself. He thirsted for revenge, for the power that had been snatched from right under his nose—power he had already begun to savor.