Cyrus felt his mind and reality shatter before his eyes, the world around him suddenly reduced to a kaleidoscope of fractured perceptions. With reckless abandon, he charged towards the queen's office, his surroundings blurring into an indistinct haze. The door flew open with a resounding crash as he burst into the room, his composure utterly abandoned.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice raw with desperation.

The queen rose from her seat, her face a mask of practiced calm. "Settle yourself, Cyrus," she instructed, her tone measured and controlled. "Your father is being detained by the bureau. They're demanding the primordial canine in exchange."

Cyrus's hands trembled violently as he processed this information. His gaze darted between Leora and the queen, searching for any sign of hope or reassurance.

With fluid grace, the queen retrieved another cube, tossing it into the air. The device unfolded, its components rearranging to generate a shimmering image. Within the projection, Cyrus could see his father seated in a lavish apartment, his eyes restlessly scanning his surroundings.

"Dad, I'm here," Cyrus called out, his voice cracking with emotion. The sight of his father, alive and seemingly unharmed, allowed him to draw a shaky breath of relief. Having already lost his mother, the thought of losing his father as well was unbearable.

"Cyrus, you're safe. I'm relieved," his father responded, the strain evident in his voice.

The toll of his captivity was painfully clear. His usually commanding presence had diminished, his shoulders slumped and his face ashen. Though he attempted a smile, Cyrus could easily see through the façade to the worry and exhaustion beneath.

"Did you launch project T?" his father asked abruptly.

Cyrus blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question. Why would his father inquire about something so seemingly trivial at a moment like this? "Answer me, and don't lie," his father pressed, his gaze sharpening.

Unable to meet his father's eyes, Cyrus tilted his head downward. The weight of his deception bore down upon him, knowing that his father had likely uncovered the truth. "I..." he began, desperate to explain, but his father waved off his attempt.

"Why, Cyrus?" his father's voice rose in anguish. "You lied to your mother, you lied to me. We lived in blissful ignorance, believing everything was fine on your end. How could you? I failed you, I failed your mother. I'm so disappointed in you, but even more in myself for not being a good father, for abandoning you to face such hardships alone."

"Dad, you don't have to be sorry. I'm the one who failed you!" Cyrus cried out, the tears he had been holding back finally spilling down his cheeks. His heart wrenched at his father's words, each syllable a dagger of guilt.

"I don't fully understand what's happening here," his father continued, his voice growing faint, "but you shouldn't come here. Go live your life and let this old man join his wife." As his father's voice faded, so too did the image, leaving Cyrus rooted to the spot, his chest heaving with suppressed sobs.

The full weight of his lies came crashing down upon him. He had thought he had changed, but it was nothing but an elaborate deception—a veil he had carefully woven to escape his reality.

Turning to face the queen, his voice low and hoarse with emotion, Cyrus made his demand: "I want the primordial canine."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"You know perfectly well I can't do that," the queen replied, returning to her seat with an air of finality. "Leave now," she commanded with a dismissive wave.

Rage exploded within Cyrus, his composure shattering completely. "You bitch!" he roared, his voice reverberating like thunder. "You said you would save him! You promised!" His canines flashed as he unleashed a primal roar, the very walls of the office—reinforced by magic—shaking and fissuring under the onslaught. A wild, blue aura leaked from his body, filling the air with crackling energy.

The queen remained unfazed, merely clasping her fingers together. At her silent command, her two guards emerged from the corners of the office. In one swift motion, Cyrus found himself forced to his knees, his arms restrained by their inhuman strength.

"I promised I would help him leave the mine, and I did," the queen stated coldly. "Unfortunately, he was taken by the bureau immediately after. It's not my fault. If you weren't too occupied spreading my daughter's legs, you would have received the information. You chose her over the queen; you can only blame yourself. I did my part; the bite doesn't owe you anything anymore."

With a casual wave of her hand, Cyrus's body was hurled from the office, crashing brutally against the ground outside.

"But mom—" Leora began, her own aura flaring in protest.

"Oh, come now, darling," the queen interrupted, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs with a smirk. "Think with your head, not your loins. He's not part of the family. Would you really compromise all our lives for him?"

Leora stood rooted to the spot, torn between her feelings and her family loyalty. Cyrus locked eyes with the woman for whom he thought he could bend the world. Though she remained silent, her conflicted stance spoke volumes. A bitter smile twisted Cyrus's lips as he laughed in remorse. "How could I have been so stupid?" he muttered.

Dejected and abandoned, Cyrus left the villa. Minutes later, he found himself pushing open the door of a familiar shop. Everyone else had turned their back on him; he had no one left but his best friend—his sworn brother from a different mother. The one for whom he had rushed into the bureau headquarters without a second thought. Some said the bond between sworn brothers could eclipse even the ties of blood. Cyrus wasn't certain, but it was his last chance.

As he entered the shop, their eyes met. "I'm sorry I didn't come earlier," Cyrus said, his voice thick with unshed tears. After the incident at the bureau headquarters, they had parted on bad terms. Cyrus, consumed by guilt and fear, had avoided contact, turning a deaf ear to any attempts at reconciliation.

Lork stood motionless, the absence of his left arm—a grim reminder left by Nemesis—painfully apparent. Observing no immediate reaction from his best friend, Cyrus's final hope crumbled. He fell to his knees, overwhelmed by despair.

A pair of shoes appeared in his downcast field of vision. Cyrus glanced up to see Lork smiling down at him. "Come on, buddy. What kind of attitude is that?" Lork said warmly.

Cyrus felt his heart melt, a sensation he had never experienced before. It was as if a light had suddenly appeared in the darkness, dragging him from the abyss into which he had been slowly sinking. Wiping the tears from his face, the duo retreated to Lork's office and then made their way to the non-human base.

This time, no raucous party greeted them. Their numbers had been greatly reduced since their last ill-fated mission. A group of non-humans huddled around a table, poring over plans and a map of the bureau headquarters. One of their number was issuing orders and coordinating preparations.

As Cyrus approached the table, he was met with a mixture of angry and grateful stares. Lork quickly intervened, "This is my friend—no, my best friend. If he hadn't rushed to the bureau last time, I would have died." He pulled up a chair and reached for a glass, struggling to pour the liquor with his remaining hand.

Feeling a renewed surge of guilt, Cyrus stepped in to help serve his friend. "It's not very practical with just one hand," Lork chuckled, his attempt at levity barely masking the pain beneath.

"Aren't you angry?" Cyrus asked, taking a seat beside him and downing his drink in one swift motion.

"Not really," Lork replied, emptying his own glass and slamming it on the table. "I knew long ago. We have a special mark we leave on those who take our lives."

Cyrus's grip on his glass tightened as the implications of Lork's words sank in. If he had known at the time, when she had pleaded for help, he wouldn't have hesitated for even a second. Now, all that remained was bitter regret.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" Lork asked, his eyes slightly unfocused—clear evidence that he had been drinking for some time already.

A small, genuine smile tugged at Cyrus's lips. "How could I forget that?" he replied, allowing himself to be drawn into the comforting embrace of shared memories, if only for a moment.