He looked at the slumped figure in the cell.
Fingers.
No. Stumps. Mangled. Charred at the edges.
A boy. Curled against the wall.
Torik stepped forward, a chill coursing through his veins. His body moved without command, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat.
Please, no.
The face.
Freckles. Skin gone pale. Eyes open.
Empty.
Mox.
The world tilted.
Torik staggered, then lunged for the bars, gripping them with trembling hands.
"Mox! Mox!" he called, voice cracking.
Stillness. No movement. Not even a breath.
"He's dead," a voice said from the next cell, flat and final. An old man hunched in the shadows, his voice barely more than a rasp. "Been that way a day now."
Torik turned, wide-eyed, mouth open but voiceless.
"They tortured him. Wanted to know about some partner in crime of his. Kid wouldn't talk. Took everything they gave him. Sad lad."
Torik staggered back. Betrayal? No.
He hadn't betrayed him.
He'd protected him.
Torik dropped to his knees and vomited. The sound echoed in the dungeon, raw and human and helpless.
He had never felt so sick in his life.
"I don't know how you got in, but you best get out, boy," the man said urgently. "They definitely heard your outburst."
But it was too late. The door opened, and a guard entered, torch in hand.
"Who did it..." Torik asked.
"What?" The old man replied.
Torik looked at him, "Who did the torturing."
The old man pointed to the guard, "One of them. I don't know which. They all look the same."
Torik nodded. He was a thief. He was good at sneaking. But this wasn't a time for shadows.
The guard looked to one of the cells. "Who made that noise?"
Then a figure jumped on him. Torik.
He looked like a ravaged dog as he screamed and yanked the guard's helm off, revealing the sweating, grimy face beneath. The guard grabbed for him, but Torik was on his back, hard to reach.
He didn't have his knife.
But he had Calwin's pen, and he had sharpened it earlier just in case.
He stabbed. Again. And again. Into the guard's eyes, wild and relentless. The man groaned and stumbled back into the wall.
Torik leapt off as the guard flailed blindly.
One final strike, he drove the pen into his neck. The guard dropped, motionless.
"How long until their watch changes?" Torik asked, panting.
"Hour or so," the man replied, shocked.
"Free us?"
Torik shook his head, he couldn't compromise the plan.
He exited the dungeon and slipped back into the hall. No one else seemed to have heard the commotion. Just the one who was already dead.
That's the downside of having a bunch of fanatics, you get overconfident and post fewer guards.
Torik crept deeper into the dark halls.
The image of Mox's lifeless form clung to his mind.
I'll never have a friend better than you, Mox. I wish I could have told you that.
He'd been selfish, paranoid, slow to trust. He owed Mox. And Torik never owed the dead.
He spotted some priests and scrambled past. He looked the part enough to avoid suspicion.
Up ahead, light spilled from a room.
He peeked through the doorway. A group of knights. Too many. This must be the way.
He snuck in and crouched low, edging around the room's outline.
He made them see something outside. A flicker. A shape.
Three of them left to investigate.
That was enough.
Torik moved, quiet and smooth, to the opposite door. He opened it and slipped inside, closing it gently behind him.
There it was.
The Crown.
It sat atop a pedestal draped in cloth, its cracked gem glowing faintly with an inner pulse, like a dying heart that still refused to stop beating. Its light cast flickering shadows across the chamber walls, distorting angles, making every shape seem just slightly off.
A single artificer stood beside it. He was muttering, hunched over, scribbling notes and examining the fracture with trembling fingers. Torik could see the wear on the man's face, dark circles under his eyes, sweat at his brow.
Torik crept forward, slow and careful. No knife. Just Calwin's pen, and the rag he spotted folded on a nearby shelf. Not ideal. But he'd made do with less.
He reached the artificer in silence. Snatched the rag. In one motion, he wrapped it around the man's neck and pulled.
The man thrashed, clawing at the cloth, kicking over a chair.
"If you know about the tortured boy with the freckles, Mox, tap your hand twice," Torik hissed in his ear.
No taps. Just more desperate clawing.
Torik tightened his grip, jaw clenched. His arms trembled, not with effort but with fury, with the need for answers, with guilt.
The man went limp.
Torik let him drop.
Then he turned.
The Crown seemed to stare at him.
Its cracked gem shimmered softly. A pulse. Like breath. Like it waited.
He picked it up.
"Free me,"
The voice slithered into his thoughts. Not sound. Not words. Something beneath them.
Torik froze.
"I can grant you immense powers," it said. The words came with a weight, as though spoken through the marrow of his bones.
He narrowed his eyes. "I already have powers."
"Yes," the voice answered. "Of me."
His breath caught.
"What?"
The shadows in the room deepened. The Crown pulsed again.
"You think the Bound Arts came from Edramon? No. They are mine. Veilbinding was my gift. When you made them see me, it was I who gave you strength. When you bent light and mind, it was I who held the veil."
Torik stared, disbelief creeping into his mind like rot. "That can't be true."
"Why do you think you showed them an image of me? I touched your thoughts. I lent you power. You reached beyond your own boundary, and I answered."
Mox died because of you, Torik thought, the words heavy.
The voice answered. Calm. Certain.
"No. He died because of loyalty. Loyalty to you. Loyalty to an idea. Let go of yours, thief. Let go of your pain. You want to stop this war? You want to tear the lies down? I can help you. I can make you more."
Torik's fists clenched. His body trembled.
He could feel it. The offer. It was real. Power, rising behind the words. Power that bent perception, that could twist the world into seeing what he wanted.
He stepped closer to the pedestal.
He could take it. He could be done hiding. No more scrambling through alleys, no more fear, no more betrayal.
He raised a hand.
Mox's face flashed before him. Bloody. Mutilated. Brave.
No.
That power had a price.
"You think I want to be like you?" Torik whispered. "You think I want to burn the world to make it see me?"
The voice paused. Then answered, cold and sharp.
"Better to be seen for what you are than never be seen at all."
Torik's jaw set.
"No. I choose who I am. And I won't let you decide that."
He pulled his hand back and reached for the sack.
He wrapped the Crown and tied it shut.
The voice hissed in his skull, angry now. Disappointed. But it didn't stop him.
He slung the bundle over his shoulder.
The door opened.
The Holy Mother. Surrounded by Unbound Knights.
Too late.
He'd been so consumed by the Crown, by Mox, he hadn't checked the room properly. A quick scan showed no exits.
"I thought Lord Kurten's sudden proposal was too good to be true," she said.
Torik didn't flinch. "Should've acted on it then."
She stepped inside, face unreadable. "So, you're the thief. I still don't understand why someone like you would choose them."
"After what you did to Mox? I'd help the King himself to see you burn."
Her mouth curled.
"We do what we must for our god, Tharoghul."
"Then you should've rewarded the boy who brought you the Crown. Not butchered him."
"He didn't bring the complimentary prize."
Torik felt the words like a punch to the gut.
"I wanted the one who stole the Crown. But he refused to speak. We knew he had a partner."
Mox protected me.
Torik swayed on his feet, head pounding.
"He held out until the very end," she said softly. "Missing all his fingers and... other-."
Torik saw red.
"You fucking whore," he spat.
The Holy Mother flinched ever so slightly. Her smile cracked.
"It's too bad. You would have made a brilliant disciple."
She nodded to her guards.
They advanced.