Mephistopheles continued down the hallway until the corridor forked. He stopped, considering the left and right passages for a moment before turning right. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone, his pace relaxed, his sword still dripping.

  In the control room, the operators watched the monitors in silence. One of them pressed her palms flat against the console, her knuckles white. The man beside her wiped sweat from his upper lip with a shaking hand. On the screen, Mephistopheles strolled through the castle as if he owned it, the blood on his blade catching the light.

  “What do we do?” one operator finally whispered. Her voice cracked on the last word. “We cannot let him get away with this.”

  Another operator shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the screen. “The best thing we can do is inform Simba and Balisarda Sumernor of Aham’s passing.”

  “Why not tell Deimos?” a third asked.

  The first operator shot him a sharp look. “There is no way in which I will tell anything to that psycho. If we did that, he might decide it is a good idea to kill us as well.”

  “Deimos might be a maniac,” the third operator insisted, “but he is the best we have for this.”

  “Cease your current line of conversation.” The second operator’s voice dropped low and firm. “We will not be relaying this information to him. We wait for Simba and Balisarda Sumernor to arrive and inform them personally. Do you understand?”

  The room fell quiet. Then the air grew thick, heavy, pressing against their eardrums. The temperature seemed to drop. One operator gasped and stumbled back from his console. Another’s teeth chattered audibly. Their breathing quickened, shallow and fast, and the scent of their own sweat grew sharp and sour in the stale air.

  Deimos stood behind them.

  None of them had heard him enter. He simply existed there now, his presence filling the space like smoke. The operators took a collective step back.

  “Why are you all so terrified of me?” Deimos asked. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it made the hairs on their arms stand on end.

  “We are not afraid of you,” one operator stammered.

  “Then why are you shivering like a bunch of mice?” Deimos stepped closer. The operator closest to him flinched. “I am just asking a simple question.”

  “Because... because...”

  “Because you are afraid of me.” Deimos shook his head slowly. “That is why you tremble like scared children.”

  “No, no, that is not true.”

  Deimos’s eyes narrowed. He scanned the group, his gaze settling on one operator who tried to press himself further into the shadows. Deimos crossed the room in two strides and seized the man by the throat, lifting him from the floor. The operator’s feet kicked uselessly. His fingers scrabbled at Deimos’s wrist, but the grip did not loosen. The man’s face flushed deep red, then began to pale. His eyes bulged.

  “Stop, stop, please, stop!” The words came out strangled, barely audible.

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  Deimos tightened his grip on the operator's throat. The man's face darkened from red to purple, his fingers still scratching uselessly at Deimos's wrist.

  "Truth Arises."

  The words left Deimos's mouth soft and precise. They activated something. In that instant, Deimos perceived the truth of the operator's terror, the falsehood of his denial, all of it laid bare without a single word of confession. The ability simply knew. It always knew.

  Above the operator's head, three letters materialised, visible only to Deimos: L I E.

  He opened his hand. The operator dropped to the floor in a heap, motionless, his face ashen, his lips blue. His eyes stared at nothing.

  Deimos turned to the others. “It is a lie. Now, why would you try to bullshit me like that? I cannot stand liars. I could kill you in a second, just like how I destroy a city. Do not ever lie to me again, or you will end up just like that city.”

  The remaining operators pressed themselves against the consoles, against the walls. No one spoke. The only sound was the ragged breathing of the man on the floor.

  A voice came from the monitor. “Hello? Anyone there?”

  Deimos looked up. On the screen, a figure walked through a stone corridor. Blood glistened wetly on his sword and vambraces. He moved with an easy confidence, peering into doorways as he passed.

  Deimos approached the screen, his curiosity evident in the slight tilt of his head. “Who is this gentleman?”

  One operator found his voice. “This person infiltrated the castle. He killed sixty-seven archers and five hundred and eighty-five swordsmen. He also took out Aham, principal five.”

  Deimos’s eyebrows rose. “How did he do that?”

  “He killed Aham,” another operator confirmed. “He does not seem to care about the other principals.”

  “Ah.” Deimos studied the screen. “So it appears he has no remorse for killing those under our lord’s command. Interesting. I will find out who he is sooner or later.”

  “His name might be Mephistopheles,” an operator offered. “I heard Bismark and Aham speak of someone by that name. It could be him.”

  Deimos leaned closer to the monitor. “What else did you hear?”

  “He mentioned he came here to slay Balisarda Sumernor.” The operator hesitated. “We cannot confirm if that is his true motive.”

  “Do you know where I can locate him?” Deimos asked.

  “We have security cameras throughout the castle. I will have someone check his current position.”

  Deimos continued to watch the figure on the screen. The man had stopped walking and stood in the middle of a hallway, listening. “I think I will take care of that myself.”

  Then he was gone. The operators felt a rush of air, a momentary pressure change that popped their ears, and the space where he had stood was empty.

  Deimos moved through the castle at impossible speed. Corridors blurred past him. Rooms flashed by in fragments of colour and shadow. He checked each level, each hallway, each staircase. He descended into the north-east corner, spiralling down stone steps into darkness. The air grew cooler, damper. He passed door after door, descending further until he emerged on the first floor.

  This section of the castle opened into a grand reception hall. Doorways led to a dining hall and kitchen. Corridors branched off in multiple directions. Deimos scanned each one.

  Then he saw him.

  Mephistopheles walked slowly down a hallway ahead, his bloodied sword held loosely at his side. Deimos launched himself forward, closing the distance in an instant. He swung his fist toward the intruder’s head.

  Mephistopheles moved. His sword came up, the flat of the blade meeting Deimos’s fist with a solid clang that reverberated through the stone walls. The force of the blow travelled back up Deimos’s arm. Mephistopheles had not budged.

  “What are you trying to do?” Mephistopheles asked. His voice was calm, almost bored. “I will just negate everything you do.”

  Outside the castle on a small hill

  Outside the castle, on a small hill, the ground trembled faintly. Thousands of boots trudged through mud and wet grass, the sound a low, continuous rumble that carried across the open field. The men crested the hill, and when they saw the castle in the distance, they halted. Breathing heavy. Weapons lowered. Eyes fixed on the distant walls.

  Jabari stood at the front, studying the fortress. The wind carried the scent of rain and sweat. He turned to his men.

  “It is time.”