And when the last of the allotted days had passed, the castle was nigh-unrecognizable. The great walls were made of not stone but gold, and the figures of the tapestries danced and capered like living things. Each servitor was an ideal of their form, and the wine of perfection flowed without end. Even the old king had returned himself to his youth, brave and beautiful, through magicks now unknown.

Once again, the king ordered the shadowed girl brought before him -- and once again, he asked the youth to finally give her name.

The walls collapsed, and the tapestries frayed. The servants rotted, and the wine soured. The young king screamed in horror as his skin hung from his bones and his eyes turned to dust in their sockets. His teeth left him as a stream.

“My name is Silencio,” the girl said sweetly, as the world ended. “And who are you before me?”

Book of Silencio, Heretical Text

----------------------------------------

Aiden wasted no time.

As soon as he felt his Aether return, he deployed a veritable flood of eyeballs -- not for observation, but to stuff themselves down Hadrien's throat and choke him. Before Hadrien could dodge, they were already slipping into his open mouth, holding it open for their brethren. Five, six, seven… a wild grin spread across Aiden's face as he saw his strategy working.

And then --

-- and then Dragan Hadrien vanished.

The eyeballs that had entered Hadrien's body floated confused in the air for a moment, swivelling around as if they'd just lost sight of him. Worriedly, Aiden called them back to his side, having sixteen or so eyeballs rotate in a circle around him so as to keep total watch of the room.

Aiden could see through his additional eyes as if they were his own, and through them right now he could see he was totally alone. The holographic monitors fizzled above the desk, showing that the black swordsman had dispatched Gresham and the others. The door to the office was firmly closed. He could hear the faint buzz of the air conditioning, and feel the chill in his bones.

With a flick of his wrist, he sent another eyeball to look under the desk, just to find that it too was empty.

What was going on? Clearly, Hadrien had some kind of ability that allowed him to vanish from sight, but where had he gone? Had he actually teleported, or just turned invisible? If the latter was true, then it wouldn't help no matter how many eyeballs Aiden dispatched…

No. In situations like this, panic was the last emotion he should indulge. Instead, he cleared his throat, smirking at the empty chamber.

"How about this?" he called out. "I have a deal I think will interest you. I --"

Dragan Hadrien reappeared directly above Aiden in a shower of blue sparks, landing on him with a devastating knee drop. As he collapsed to the floor, he directed his eyes to surge towards Hadrien, to coat his body and soften any blow he tried to unleash upon Aiden.

All he needed was a spare second, and he could use the final boon Hearth had left him… he stuffed his hand into his pocket, reaching for the severed finger, searching for the Neverwire that was keeping it sealed. He was going to make it, he was going to make it, he was going to make it!

Alas.

Eyeballs were soft, and the kick that came for his head was hard. Everything went black.

----------------------------------------

The moment Aiden lost consciousness, the eyeballs that had been covering Dragan like bubble wrap fizzled away into Aether. He sighed heavily, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

Going from mundane combat to an Aether battle like that was… an unusual sensation. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd thrown a punch without some sparks of blue bolstering his fist. Rising to his feet, Dragan wiped cold sweat from his forehead.

Something had fallen from Aiden’s pocket as he’d been knocked out. A severed finger, with what looked like a length of Neverwire tied around it. Curious. He placed it in his own pocket, careful not to touch the Neverwire as he securely zipped it up. Maybe Skipper would be able to figure something out from it.

His gaze returned to the monitors. There were two faces he hadn't expected to see tonight.

The first was Aiden, the brat from back on Yoslof. From the look of things, he'd gotten a promotion since the last time they'd seen each other -- and he'd evidently learned how to use Aether. His ability hadn't been much to write home about in a combat sense, but he supposed it had been a bad matchup against Gemini World. Too bad, so sad.

The second face was much more interesting.

There, on the security monitors, the unmistakable figure of Atoy Muzazi was making his way towards Mila Green's cell. He looked a little more weathered, sure -- and the bags beneath his eyes were considerable -- but it was unmistakably him.

Dragan tapped a finger against his chin as he considered his options. He and Muzazi hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms, so it probably wasn't ideal for him to show his face. More importantly, what was Muzazi doing here?

The broadcast had said Mila Green was being accused of treason. Had she been dragged into the Supremacy's influence, just like Helga had been? If so, that suggested Muzazi was here to break out one of the Supremacy's assets -- given his personality, that was the only purpose that made sense.

If that was the case, then Dragan had been beaten to the punch. That didn't mean he was useless, though. He might not be willing to show his face before Muzazi…

…but that didn't mean he couldn't lend his support from a distance.

----------------------------------------

The final hallway. Muzazi's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

Empty cells lined the walls, equipped with little save for slab-like beds and leaking toilets. The stench was inexcusable, and so Muzazi breathed through his mouth as he made his way down the hallway. Even with that discomfort, however, the grim resolve in his eyes did not fade.

He had his orders. He had a reason to be here. He had an empty place to send the despair in his heart.

His footsteps echoed down the hallway, and before long he had reached the door at the end. He already knew that Mila Green lied just beyond it. A single slash of his sword would suffice to decapitate her, without time for her to experience fear or suffering. At the very least, he could provide that mercy.

"Is that your intention, Atoy Muzazi?"

Of course.

Muzazi turned his head, already glaring intensely. There, in the middle of the hallway, was the ethereal figure of Nigen Rush. The golden light from his visor banished any darkness in the room, and Muzazi saw spots beneath his eyelids as he blinked.

"I have no time for you, phantom," Muzazi muttered. "I will not entertain the twitches of a diseased mind."

"Then why do you turn?" Rush said softly. "Why do you listen, when you say that you will not?"

Muzazi's arm, which had been reaching for the door, dropped to his side. "Say your piece, then," he growled. "Say your piece so that I may deny it."

"This is not your way."

His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"To strike down an innocent. To act for cruelty's sake. To abdicate responsibility. If you do this thing, however, you will find that it is your way. These sins you will never break free of."

With a flash of steel, Muzazi pointed his blade towards the apparition. "And who are you to lecture me, then, to tell me who I am?"

"I am you."

"Yes," Muzazi sneered. "And we -- you and I -- are nothing. I have made choices. I have tasted the consequences." His last words were nearly a scream. "I have no more stomach for them!"

Rush's figure was unmoving, a statue. "That is not a choice a human is allowed to make," he said patiently. "You can convince yourself you are free from responsibility, but it will not be so. You can tell yourself you have rejected your despair, but it will feast upon you. You will be a husk: a husk surrounded by your regrets. Is this the ending you desire?"

Slowly, Muzazi lowered his sword, until it hung limp at his side. "It does not matter what I want," he muttered bitterly. "It never has."

And then, unwilling to hear another word from Nigen Rush, he turned back to the door.

"Atoy," said Marie.

He froze. That wasn't fair.

"Look at me, Atoy," Marie said, insistently, from behind him. "Turn around and look at me."

He knew that he should not. He knew that looking would only tear open his wounds. He knew that looking would not change the past.

And yet, silently, he turned and looked.

There, where Nigen Rush had stood, was Marie Hazzard. Her arms were folded, and one eyebrow was raised. She was wearing that leather jacket over a pink dress -- the same thing she'd been wearing when they first met.

She scowled. "What do you think you're doing, Atoy?"

"This is a trick," he whispered. His eyes were wet.

"A memory," she corrected him. "But it's all the same thing. You know what I would've have said. You know I'd have hated this pathetic version of you."

The sword slipped from Muzazi's grip, and clattered to the floor.

"It doesn't matter what you would have done…" he said, near silent. "You're…"

"Say it."

"You're dead." The words were ice in his throat.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Are you dead, Atoy?" Marie said, staring steadily at him. There was a note of accusation to her tone. "Do you want to be?"

Muzazi clenched his fists. "I don't… I don't want this. Feeling like this, thinking these things, knowing that -- knowing that…"

"Knowing that it's your fault?"

Silently, he nodded -- but the silence was not mirrored. He heard Marie laugh scornfully, her imaginary voice echoing down the hallway.

"Are you an idiot or something, Atoy? Do you really think I'd have done something like that without it being my own choice? Don't flatter yourself."

Muzazi closed his eyes, shook his head. "You're just me -- trying to make myself feel better. You don't know what she really would have said. What she'd have done…"

Something touched his face. A cold hand, caressing his cheek. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and saw that red gaze so close to his own.

"If that's true," she whispered. "Doesn't the fact I'm here mean you don't want to do this?"

Muzazi could feel his resolve cracking under that touch. He sniffed, opened his mouth to speak -- and yet the words took a moment to come forth.

"Then what am I to do?" he demanded. "You're gone. It doesn't matter."

"Then make it matter," she replied. "That's what principles are for, right? To give meaning to the things we do. You know that better than anyone. Have you forgotten?"

He could hold himself back no longer. He reached up to his own face, grabbed the hand cupping his cheek. His grasp met nothing but empty air, but if he imagined… if he imagined…

"Back on Panacea," he whispered. "Before you… you said something to me, but I -- I didn't hear. I couldn't. What… what was it you said to me? Please."

She smiled sadly. "You know what I said, Atoy."

And then, with a single blink of his eyes, Marie Hazzard was gone. With shaking hands, Muzazi crouched down, picked up the black blade -- and returned it to its sheath.

After taking a deep breath, he turned and opened the door before him.

The cell beyond was only barely more furnished than the rest, and the extent of that extravagance mostly consisted of tighter and more firm bars. The woman within stood up from the bed in surprise as Muzazi entered -- the exhausted rings of a fugitive under her eyes, and dried blood still on her face.

It seemed her capture hadn't been an easy one. No doubt she recognised the man who'd taken her in originally, too.

"What's going on?" Mila Green demanded, retreating to the back of her cell. "Who are you people?!"

Muzazi swallowed -- and then, he allowed the slightest smile to cross his lips.

"My name is Atoy Muzazi," he said. "I'm here to help."

----------------------------------------

These last few days had been the worst of Mila Green's life.

The horror of being captured and interrogated, losing Helga again, and then even being declared a traitor by her own side… every time she thought back to those memories, it was like she was shoving her own face onto a spike. Involuntary shudders ran down her spine, and her breath came short. Before she'd been captured by Aiden Blaith, she felt like she'd already been on the verge of a breakdown.

Now, however, all she could do was run.

Her shoes were wet with filthy water as she sprinted through the sewers, following the lead of Atoy Muzazi. The stench was revolting, but Muzazi had been right in saying this was the best route to leave the building unseen. After everything she'd been through, the stink bothered her very little.

What was more confusing was the fact that Atoy Muzazi was saving her in the first place. He'd been the one who'd kidnapped her originally, after all. Was it just hunger or exhaustion that was leading her to trust him now, or was there something about him that told her he could be trusted?

As she was now, she couldn't trust her own thoughts. All she could do was run.

The two of them came to the mouth of the sewers, the accumulated waste flowing out into an automatic processing facility. Mila did her best not to look at the river of filth as it was poured into the mouth of a great filter, ejected again as clean water and raw materials.

Muzazi, for his part, just let out a deep breath as the two of them marched into the metal clearing beyond. It seemed he'd been injured assaulting Forgiveness Station 93 -- there was an unmistakable plasma wound on his left arm, and every now and then he'd grab his chest in pain.

"Stay still," she muttered, walking over. "Let me treat you."

He shook his head. "There's no time."

She was no stranger to reluctant patients, and she injected her voice with the insistence that usually worked. "They'll just slow you down if we leave them be. At least let me bandage your arm."

A moment's hesitation, and then he subtly nodded. Mila tore free the sleeve of her prison jumpsuit, binding it around the damaged limb as a makeshift bandage. There usually wasn't much bleeding with plasma wounds anyway -- they tended to cauterise themselves as a matter of course -- but this would still keep Muzazi on his feet for just a little longer.

"Why did you save me?" Mila muttered, looking down at her work rather than him.

He didn't look at her either. "It was the right thing to do."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're the reason I was in that situation in the first place."

"That's… why it was the right thing to do."

What a bizarre guy. Mila finished binding the wound, checking it one last time to make sure it would remain sturdy before taking a step back. "So… what now?"

"What do you mean?" Muzazi frowned.

"Well… we can't just keep running forever, right? And from what you've said, the people you work for won't be happy you disobeyed orders. Won't they come after you, too?"

"That's…" Muzazi began a sentence he clearly didn't know the end of, instead choosing to sigh and run a hand over his face. "That's a bridge we'll have to cross when we come to it. For the time being, we just need to get out of sight. We've stayed here too long, anyway. I know it sounds somewhat dramatic, but they could be watching us right now."

----------------------------------------

Dragan Hadrien was watching right then, from the skeleton of a nearby unfinished building. After seeing that Muzazi was taking the sewers as his way out, he'd cut ahead using Gemini World to this exit.

It seemed he needn't have worried after all.

Mila Green was safe, and Dragan didn't know anyone who'd protect an innocent as fiercely as this man. In the end, there really hadn't been much point in him coming out: apart from breaking that strange fingernail, he hadn't contributed much.

Oh, well. Dragan stepped back from the window. He'd never been one for glory anyway. Time for him to coolly withdraw.

Dragan reached for his Aether…

…and found it absent.

----------------------------------------

Silencio.

Bang.

----------------------------------------

Atoy Muzazi's eyes widened, his body stiffened, and he reached for his sword -- but all too late. The shot hit him in the neck, sending him down to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. As Mila looked down at him, horrified, she saw the unmistakable shape of a tranquiliser dart embedded in his throat.

"The thing so adorable about rats," Gertude Hearth said. "Is the way they choose the filthiest escape routes. Don't you think?"

Mila whirled around.

The Apexbishop was wearing a brown fur coat that dwarfed her actual body, a predatory smile on her face. Her eyes gleamed yellow in the dim light. Her slender fingers stroked the dart-gun she'd just used to fell Muzazi. Another involuntary shudder rippled through Mila Green's body, and she suddenly understood how a mouse must feel when faced with a cat.

Three figures stood with the Apexbishop, right at the mouth of the sewers.

Two of them were strange men, wrapped from head to toe in bandages, their arms limp at their sides. The third was Aiden, one of his eyes now marred by a noticeable bruise. He sneered at her as their gazes met.

"That's the one," he nodded at the prone Muzazi. "He came to break her out -- there was another, too, but he isn't here."

"A shame," Gertrude said quietly. "Perhaps he'll tell us what we want to know once we get a chance to… chat."

"What is this?" Mila demanded, looking between the two of them.

Gertude smiled sweetly at her, pulling her fur coat tight to avoid the inevitable chill. If the disreputable surroundings bothered her, she didn't show it. She had a way of making herself seem to belong wherever she stood.

"A trap, my dear," she sighed. "Although it seems it's caught the wrong prey. I'd hoped Helga Malwarian would come to get you."

Mila's mouth was dry. "Helga?"

"Of course," Gertude purred. Her eyes narrowed, and any feigned benevolence left her voice instantly. "She's the little whore who killed my Cloud, isn't she?"

There was no Aether in that space, no abilities were active, and yet Mila Green found that she couldn't move. It was the fear stoked by those bandaged figures, who she knew instinctively could kill her at any moment… and the sheer malice emitted by her Apexbishop like radiation.

“Well,” Gertrude sighed, throwing her arms out. “Nothing’s a waste. We can keep doing this trap until we get who we want. I wonder if Helga will feel more urgent with an execution?”

Mila took a single step back, and even that effort was excruciating. One of the bandaged figures took a step forward in sync, hissing incoherently at her. Even that was enough to halt her escape.

“Execution?” she mumbled. “People won’t go along with that… there’s no grounds…”

Aiden smirked, taking a step forwards as he unrolled his sleeves. “Oh, you don’t need to worry. We have ways of facilitating these things.”

Gertrude chuckled, putting a demure hand to her lips. “We certainly do.”

Mila realised what was about to happen, but too late. “No!” she screamed.

Gertrude casually reached forward -- a knife suddenly in her grip -- and sliced Aiden’s jugular. For the first moment, Aiden didn’t seem to even realise what had happened, only putting a hand to his throat once his blood began to dribble free. Choking on himself, he tried to turn around, only to slip on the blood that had already left his body and collapse to the floor. There, he could do nothing but writhe like a fish, Gertrude staring coldly down at him.

His movements slowed…

…and slowed…

…and stopped.

“Look,” Gertrude said lightly, tapping Aiden’s body with a shoe. “Now you’re a murderer, too. I’d say that’s grounds for execution.”

“What’s…” Mila breathed, her teeth smashing together in terror. “What’s wrong with you people?!”

Gertrude cocked her head. It was a possibility even more terrifying than the murder, but she seemed genuinely confused about what Mila meant. What she was doing right now, what she always did… from where she was standing, did all of that seem natural?

“Wrong with me?” she laughed. “By what metric, Miss Green? The way you’ve behaved so far has led you here -- a fugitive in a sewer, soon to be executed for a crime you did not commit. It seems here that your actions are the ones that are incorrect. You don’t agree?”

Mila did not reply. How could she? She could feel in her bones that the wrong word, the wrong move, would mean unimaginable pain. Coward that she was, she couldn’t bring herself to anger this woman.

“It seems I’ve won the conversation, then,” Gertrude smiled. Her eyes flicked over to one of her bandaged men. “Negative Six, bring that swordsman back with us. He’ll be needed for interrogation.”

The bandaged man -- Negative Six, clearly -- nodded jerkily, shambling over to the unconscious Muzazi with an unnaturally smooth and fast gait. Mila could do nothing but stand stock-still as it walked past her, its raspy and hollow breathing echoing through her ears. She clenched her fists.

Helga, she thought to herself. I’m sorry.

There was a flash of steel.

Gertrude’s eyes widened.

The other bandaged man snarled.

Mila turned -- just in time to see the severed head of Negative Six roll past her feet.

Atoy Muzazi was standing up.

The tranquilliser dart was still in his throat, and it had definitely deposited its payload. The bandages had slipped from his arm with his rough landing, and his jagged burn was fully exposed to the acrid air. His legs shook beneath him, barely keeping him upright, and Mila could see from the way that he was breathing that his broken ribs were bringing him agony.

And yet, he stood. Even though it was black, his sword seemed to shine with reflected light.

“What is this?” Gertrude whispered, frightened for the first time. “Your Aether… it shouldn’t work. You should be out cold.”

Muzazi looked up at her, his loose dark hair hanging over his bloodshot eyes. He took a deep, rattling breath. “This is not Aether. This is resolve. That is not something you can take away from me, witch.”

Gertrude’s eyes widened, her sharp teeth bared in outrage at the insult. She turned to her remaining servant. “Take him,” she snapped, before calling out louder. “All of you -- take him!”

There were more of those things, in the darkness of the facility. Mila could hear them moving through pipes, see them out of the corners of her eyes. This was a battle that could not be won.

Atoy Muzazi glanced at her. “Run,” he murmured kindly.

To be perfectly honest, he looked like he was about to drop… and at the same time, he looked like he could face a thousand men and win. Even if his legs shook, the sword in his hands remained steady and immovable. Those words, that sight, that will… for the first time that night, Mila found the resolve to move flowing through her.

And with that will, she ran as she was bid.