The flat was small, cramped and carried a stale scent. Wallpaper was curled at the edges. The radiator beneath the windows never came on, the television on the stand in the center of the room was stolen and it spilled a cold light into the gloom.
Paul Strahm sat on the sagging sofa, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed to the flickering screen. The news ran its cycle again, images of cordoned off streets, panicked civilians, officials in Paladin coats shepherding people into order.
The same words replayed in a sliding banner. Attacks, investigations, no clear answers yet.
He listened, but more than that, he savoured the taste.
Hatred burned steady in his chest, not wild, not a blaze, but a furnace that had been lit years ago and never gone out. He hated the Ostaran people with their neat streets and their smug trust in Paladin or hate in the other.
He hated how they always wanted to understand tragedy, to soothe it and explain it away, and ignore that they are a major cause of everyone else's suffering.
His hatred had grown so dense, so suffocating, it felt less like an emotion now and more like the marrow in his bones.
What he wanted was simple, for everything to fall apart. For the walls of their proud cities to rot, for their laws to choke them, for their military to splinter and devour itself. He wanted them to suffer, not in fire or blood, but a long slow disintegration of everything they thought was safe.
And yet, when he thought of saying it aloud, when he thought of giving his hatred a shape, he felt the same void he always had. Not only that, it was the words, the words just jumbled up and it had always been like that, ever since he was young.
There was no poetry in his bile, no eloquence to explain why he hated so deeply. Every time he tried, it withered on his tongue. He had learned to stop trying. His silence felt the most honest than any speech could.
Paul Strahm did not explain himself. He only hated. And he wanted them all to know that hate not in words, but in the ruin he wanted to bring.
From the kitchen table came the sound of a spoon clinking against porcelain. It was his little harbinger of the ruin he planned for the first city he touched in these lands. Oscar Lorian.
The young boy stirred his cereal in slow, nervous circles, brown eyes darting from the bowl to the back of Paul's head. His hair fell into his face, a curtain for his fear.
"I didn't want cereal," the boy's voice piped up, high-pitched and squeaky, breaking the silence.
Paul blinked once, slow and exhaled. He didn't even turn to face him at first. His voice was flat, measured. "I know. But people are watching everyone a lot more suspiciously now. And you know why right?"
Oscar nodded slowly and kept his head down. "Because of me."
"I forgot to grab something earlier." Paul said. "So eat what we have unless you want to starve."
Oscar's lips trembled, but his words came out soft and shy. "We've eaten the same cereal for the last four days."
The clink of his spoon stopped as Paul stood. The simple act made Oscar shrink into himself, his small frame rigid in the chair. Paul moved with deliberate slowness, not stomping, not rushing, but each and every step was silent and felt heavy with a threat.
He stopped by the table and let his shadow fall over the boy. His dark eyes held Oscar in place, stripping him down without a word.
Oscar whimpered, clutching his bowl with both hands. "I'm sorry. I'll eat it. I promise…"
Paul didn't answer. He took the bowl from his hands with a calm, steady grip, and raised it over the boy's head. The milk sloshed, the spoon rattled. Oscar's wide eyes glistened as he ducked down instinctively, voice breaking. "Please… I'll eat it! I'm sorry!"
Paul didn't strike the boy. He turned and carried the bowl to the sink, the weight of his silence heavier than any blow. The cereal and milk splattered into the basin, the spoon clattering after them. He set the empty bowl down gently.
Then his hand lifted, fingers spreading, palm pressing against invisible resistance. He moved like a performer in an empty theatre, sketching shapes into the air. The milk, the soggy cereal, the spoon, all of it froze where it lay, sealed in silence by nothing the eye could see.
An invisible cube locked them, compressing the mess into stillness. No sound escaped. No air stirred.
This was his Ego. [Mime]. His curse, his gift. His hate, given form in tricks of simplicity. He didn't get flames or lightning, or spectacle. Reality bent in minor ways for him when he acted out as its performer.
And in that silence, that airless box, the world suffocated exactly how he wishes the Ostarans would. They were the devils that he eventually learned destroyed his life, his family, his home and his dignity.
Paul's expression didn't change. He simply turned, walked slowly past Oscar, and muttered. "Go to bed."
The boy hesitated, then whispered. "I'm sorry."
Paul stopped. His voice cut sharp, a whisper edged in glass. "Do you even realise what I've done for you?"
Oscar froze, nodding quickly, his small hands gripping the edge of his chair.
Paul stepped closer again, crouched until his shadow swallowed the boy whole. "Do you realise I could have left you? Left you to rot with the rest of those worthless fools?" His voice was calm, but each word sank deep. "I pulled you out! I set you free! To show the world what they did to us. To prove we existed and that we matter!"
His hand shot out, gripping Oscar's hair, tugging his head back sharply. Oscar whimpered, eyes welling. Paul leaned close, voice dropping to a hiss. "I will not be held back!"
He let go, shoving him forward in his chair. Oscar's breath hitched, his small chest heaving as he dared not speak.
The television cut in, its tone urgent. A breaking report.
Paul straightened and turned, his dark eyes narrowing at the screen. The anchor's voice was tight and urgent.
"...authourities have just confirmed the discovery of two containers found in the sewers beneath Brumália. Inside were the bodies of twenty-four victims, all confirmed dead for some time. Officials are investigating possible links to a trafficking ring, but no further details have been released at the time…"
The words droned on, but Paul tilted his head, the faintest curl of a smile ghosting his lips. His hand lifted, pointing at the boy still trembling in the chair.
"Would've been twenty-five," he said softly, almost to himself. "If I hadn't felt generous enough to drag you out."
***
The library was like a cathedral, it was silent, its ceilings soared high with an intricate design of ribbed beams and glass panels that swallowed the dim afternoon light and broke it into fractured pools that slid across the floor in uneven shapes.
Lanterns hung from wrought iron hooks in long chains, their glow warm, giving the rows of shelves a soft golden hue. In every direction books rose, stacked on shelves that reached nearly three stories high, why? It wasn't like normal people could reach that high.
Ruben believed it was just an aesthetic thing as it simply made no sense. But it did look cool.
Ruben and Corbin sat by the largest window the hall offered, perched on high chairs at a reading desk that ran the length of the glass. From their vantage point the city of Brumália unfolded beneath them, its streets bending away into mist, the roofs wet and glistening from a near constant drizzle.
Corbin had insisted on coming here. He leaned over a thick tome bound in cracked leather, his fingers moving steadily across the page as though absorbing each word with the same calm certainty he carried into a fight.
Ruben sat beside him, chin propped in one hand, eyes flicking between the window and the book with restless energy. A sucker stick poked from the corner of his mouth, the hard sweet flashing briefly when it caught the light.
Corbin spoke without lifting his eyes. "Jacob's Guild. Been around long." His tone was low, but it carried a weight, like he was teaching someone something he had just learnt. "They've kept their faces hidden. The records only have a handful of names that have surfaced. Some would be dead by now though. There is one name that keeps turning up though."
Ruben asked who.
Corbin's finger tapped the page. The drawing was crude, ink worn thin in places, but the image was striking in its oddity. A young man with hair the colour of cotton candy, eyes like shards of sky, a grin stretched wide enough to show sharp canines. He looked impossibly bright, childlike almost.
"Lucian Lovejoy." Corbin read. It was the name Kade had told them about, the head assassin who fought Dario.
Ruben leaned closer, studying the smile in the sketch, the absurd brightness of his features. "He doesn't have the face of what I thought an assassin would be. Looks like juggling apples in a market would suit him more."
"And maybe that's what made him so memorable in such a short time." That and fighting with Dario. "He's killed, civilian, politician, Paladin, Phantasm. Anyone really. Fork up the right price and that's all there is to it. He hasn't been able to be stopped, so that turned the Guild into something greater, something big enough to count in the global balance."
Ruben sat back, candy stem still in hand. He whispered, "Since we fought Tibo, what if they decide to come after us next?"
Corbin finally looked up from his page. "There are worse reasons than our fight with an assassin for us to gain a target from them. It very well may be a possibility."
That made sense. The Pillar of Law had essentially made them a target, just not as public yet.
Ruben opened his mouth but Corbin cut him off with a new question. "What about Willow McCarthy? The girl from the hotel."
The mention of her name made Ruben blink. "What about her?"
Corbin's expression stayed flat, but his words sharpened. "You said she was in the media. She'd have made that story public with Tibo Costel as another one of them. I looked her up." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Not much came back. She doesn't have many stories. Nothing other than small town stories about missing people."
Ruben frowned faintly, humming. "I wonder why."
"You shouldn't wonder." Corbin's gaze locked onto his. "You should think the worst."
The words chilled Ruben. "Nah, I doubt it."
"Think of it like this. If Tibo figured out what she was, then it would make sense he would want someone like that gone." Corbin didn't flinch as he said it. "They'd put her down before her words reached anyone worth hearing."
Ruben shook his head quickly. The possibility was there, but he didn't want to think that she was dead. They already knew that Gareth and Tomas had died, but that was because of a serial killer. And Lea had mentioned she had escorted another van with people in it, Willow was one of them.
But did it all even matter?
Ruben thought to change the topic to something else. Something still dark, but more in line with the current.
"The news… it's already out. The bodies. The containers in the sewers."
Corbin's gaze lingered a moment before he let it shift back to the book. "Yeah. Means Lea reported it. That could work in our favour. If she's the one tied to that discovery, she'll be at the forefront of whatever operation follows."
"Could give us more information then." Ruben muttered, forcing calm into his voice. "But… I don't know how she'll even get back to us."
Corbin looked at him, brow raised. "Can't she just use your dragon? Like the one you sent her the message with?"
Ruben shook his head. "Nah. I can send but making it wait for her would require a different command and right now it's just too complicated for the dragon to understand and do."
Corbin sighed, leaning back in his chair and stretching. "Then it doesn't matter. We can't wait on the two of them."
The silence stretched, heavy and full of all the words they didn't say. Ruben twirled his lollipop, then asked, "So what are you doing now?"
Corbin's eyes sharpened again, their weight dropping onto the page. "I want to know where those people came from. The ones in the containers."
Ruben tilted his head. "Brumália's the furthest south in Ostara. There's nothing beyond that but Ocean."
"Not nothing," Corbin flipped to another page, revealing a drawn out map. "There are islands. Four big ones. The Yth Solara Archipelago."
Recognition sparked Ruben's face. "Right. The islands where the native tribes lived. I read about them once."
"No, we were taught it in school." Corbin said irritatedly as Ruben nodded.
Corbin then traced his finger along the names inked on the map, Veythari. Solthun. Nemorei. Rethas. Myrthun. Sylthas. Thalris. Lioran. Iskra. Each name was written in flowing script.
"Nine clans. They kept to themselves for centuries, and wouldn't allow outsiders in. peaceful, supposedly."
The history unfurled across the page in sharp black strokes. Corbin read it aloud. "It started when a wealthy family vacationing in Brumália was attacked. Their daughter was murdered by a man from the Solthun tribe. He was caught and interrogated. Then they learned of the tribes planning an attack. The Ostaran military investigated and found signs of weapons of mass destruction being built. And that was enough."
Ruben leaned in. "And then?"
"They signed a treaty," Corbin continued. "But it was broken. Another treaty was forged, and that was also broken after some time, so the final time, it was war." His eyes narrowed as he read. "But it didn't last long. Three days. The Archipelago's nine tribes were crushed. Wiped out."
"In only three days?" Ruben whispered.
Corbin nodded. "That's what it says. Thanks to Ostara's Paladin. At the head, Dario Kosta." He paused on the name, and in the pause the air thickened. "Others include Bruno Fernando. Lance Onida. Carmen Ford. And even that new Warlord, Adrian Wolfe."
Ruben blinked at one of the names though. "Carmen Ford. She's that disgraced Paladin no?"
Corbin nodded. "Yeah. She tried to attack Branneth years after that. Stopped by Adrian Wolfe. They say she lost her mind and went crazy. She escaped and hasn't been seen since."
Ruben whistled low, leaning back. "So Dario fought a war. In only three days."
"It was called 'The Purge of Nine'." Corbin turned the page, eyes narrowing on a quote etched into the parchment. He read it aloud. "'It was no war. Just a little skirmish.' - Dario Kosta."
The silence that followed after was loud.
It felt odd reading about a past Dario was so a part of, it was always there, but it was like, just never in their faces, the two boys had no clue of it.
"I'm pretty sure some of the names stated as heroes are actually gonna be in this city. Searching for whoever that attacker is. And they're probably also interested in where those bodies came from." Corbin said.
Ruben popped his lollipop back into his mouth, clacking against his teeth.
"Then I guess we have even more competition. More pieces are joining the board." He grinned.
Corbin closed the book and smacked it over his head. "It's not a game dumbass, don't forget we're still on the run. That's enemies on both sides when we figure out who's responsible."