Chapter 2: "Echoes of Chains"

---

“God, it’s quiet tonight,” I muttered, the words escaping before I could catch them.

I lay sprawled on my back, the sharp ache in my side pulsing in rhythm with the faint glow of my chains. If I were honest with myself, I missed Saria more than I cared to admit. Sanctuary was supposed to be a refuge, but lately, it felt like a different kind of cage—a gilded one, maybe, but a cage all the same. For all of Morlen's talk of patience and survival, it was clear: this place was just meant to keep us contained, and give us a false sense of security.

I’d barely begun to relax when I heard the approaching footsteps—heavy, deliberate, and laced with an authority that grated against my nerves. I groaned inwardly. I knew that stride all too well.

“Of course,” I muttered to myself, “just what I needed.”

Kastor stepped into the tent, chains rattling with every movement, as if to announce his presence before he even opened his mouth.

Unlike me, Kastor was a Jailer—a real piece of work who took pride in his so-called mastery over his demons. Where I preferred to keep my chains loose, almost casual, his were always coiled neatly around his arms and chest, each link covered in glowing, sickly green runes.

They pulsed faintly, almost in tune with the beat of his heart, like a snake poised to strike. He stood tall, his frame on the thinner side mostly lean than bulky, the kind you get from years of dodging blows instead of trading them. And if there was one thing I knew about Kastor, it was that he loved to remind everyone just how in control he was.

“Let me guess,” Kastor said, his voice dripping with contempt, “you picked another fight?”

“Oi, I’ll have you know,” I forced a grin, wincing as the pain shot up my side, “I didn’t start it this time.”

Kastor’s lip twitched, not quite forming a sneer, but close enough to make me want to knock that smug look off his face. “You never do, do you? And yet, somehow, trouble always manages to find you.”

“Guess it’s just my winning personality,” I shot back, ignoring the flare of pain that lanced through my side as I shifted to face him. “People just can’t stay away.”

“Or maybe you’re just too stupid to know when to walk away,” Kastor growled, crossing his arms, the chains around them clinking with the movement. “You think it’s some kind of game, don’t you? Picking fights with the Mantled, running off on your little escapades... You're going to get us all killed one day.”

“Better than rotting away here,” I snapped, my patience wearing thin. “At least I’m out there doing something instead of hiding behind these walls, pretending everything's fine.”

Kastor's eyes narrowed, the faint green glow of his chains intensifying. “And what exactly are you accomplishing, huh? Besides getting yourself gutted every time you step outside this place?” He took a step closer, looming over me like a shadow. “You think just because you’re a Tyrant, you’re untouchable? You’re just another fool with a death wish.”

“Better than being a fool who’s already dead inside,” I muttered, glaring up at him. “At least I still feel something.”

Kastor’s expression hardened. “You’re not the only one with a demon whispering in your ear. But unlike you, I learned to control mine. I don’t let it define me.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You’re a Tyrant, Ryn. That means you’ve got more potential to destroy everything we’ve built here than anyone else. And that scares people.”

“Maybe it should,” Ryn muttered, his gaze locked with Kastor’s. “Maybe they should be scared.”

“Then you’re more of a fool than I thought,” Kastor growled, grabbing me by the front of my shirt, yanking me to my feet. “If you can’t rein it in, you’re just another demon waiting to be put down. And I’ll be the one to do it if you push us too far.”

The room fell silent, the only sound the faint crackle of Kastor's chains and the low hum of mine own in response. He stood there, staring down at me, and for a moment, I thought he might actually lash out, that he’d finally snap and give me the excuse I needed to take a swing at him.

But then he laughed—a low, bitter sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “You’re pathetic,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “You talk about freedom, about wanting to fight back, but you’re just running. Running from them, from us, from yourself.”

“Better than being a lapdog,” I shot back, my voice sharper than I intended. “At least I’m not licking the boots of people who’ll never see us as anything but monsters.”

The darker parts of my mind screamed at me to lash out, to wrap my chains around this smug bastard's throat and remind him who he was dealing with. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Instead, I forced myself to relax, letting out a slow breath.

Kastor shoved me back, hard enough to make my wound throb anew. “You’re not invincible, Tyrant,” he said, his tone cold and unyielding. “And one day, you’ll have to face that.”

“You’re always welcome to try, Jail-Keeper. But right now, I’ve got enough problems without you adding to them.”

Kastor’s eyes flashed, and I saw a flicker of something there—anger, resentment, maybe even a hint of fear. “You’re not a hero, Ryn. You’re just another Accursed pretending to be something you’re not.”

“Maybe,” I replied, leaning back and letting out a weary sigh. “But at least I’m not pretending to be you.”

For a moment, I thought he might hit me. Instead, he just stood there, staring down at me with a look that was equal parts pity and disgust. “You’re going to get yourself killed, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I said, letting my eyes drift shut. “But until then, I’m going to keep living.”

“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” he muttered, and with that, he turned and left, his chains rattling behind him, echoing long after he’d gone.

I waited until I was sure he was out of earshot before letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Asshole,” I muttered to myself, though there was no heat behind the word.

The demon stirred again, its voice curling around the edges of my thoughts, dripping with satisfaction. “He’s right, you know. You’ll die if you keep pretending you’re something you’re not.”

“Shut up,” I whispered, pressing a hand against my eyes. “Just… shut up.”

“One day, you’ll see.” The demon’s laughter faded, leaving nothing but the echo of its taunting words and the silence that followed. “And on that day, you’ll beg for me.”

Maybe it was right. Maybe Kastor was right too. But until then, I’d keep running. I’d keep fighting. And I’d keep pretending I wasn’t afraid of what might happen when I finally stopped. When the chains slipped just a bit too far, or when the whispers became too tempting to ignore.

With a weary sigh, I plopped back down on my bed, the cot creaking under my weight. My chains settled around me, heavy but familiar, their faint glow casting twisted shadows on the canvas walls of my tent.

“Happy birthday to me,” I muttered into the darkness, forcing a smirk that felt more like a grimace.

/-/

The outpost was alive with activity. Mantled warriors moved with purpose, their armor reflecting the glow of enchanted lanterns that lined the walls. The air hummed with an unspoken anticipation, as if the very stone and steel could sense the hunt that was about to begin. It was an unearthly kind of quiet—the sort that came just before violence erupted.

Kieran stood off to the side, watching Commander Seren Valis as she prepared for the assignment. Every movement she made was calculated, deliberate, and yet somehow fluid, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. She was older than most Mantled, but age had only sharpened her, refining her into something more dangerous. As she secured the talisman to her belt, the crystalline shard flared briefly with an inner light, reacting to the power coursing through her veins. It was as if the very air around her was freezing cold, forcing everyone to stand in place, afraid to breathe under her gaze.

“Gods…” Kieran muttered under his breath. He’d seen his share of Mantled commanders at the Acadamy, but there was something different about her—something that made his skin prickle with unease.

“You don’t have to do this,” Lyra said quietly, stepping into the light, her voice a balm against the tension. She was smaller than Seren, but there was a different kind of strength to her—a quiet, unyielding resolve that made her presence just as commanding. “He’s just a boy.”

“A boy who’s eluded us for far too long,” Seren replied, not bothering to look up. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency as she tightened the straps on her armor. “And a boy who, if left unchecked, will become something far worse.” Her fingers paused briefly, brushing over the emblem etched into her breastplate—the mark of Carthys, the Goddess of Judgment. “You know as well as I do what happens to Tyrants who aren’t brought to heel.”

“He’s not like the others,” Lyra insisted, her voice firm but tinged with an edge of desperation. “There’s still a chance—”

“Enough,” Seren snapped, her eyes flashing. The shift in her tone was sharp enough to draw blood, and for the first time, Kieran saw a crack in her unshakeable calm. “Your compassion is admirable, Lyra, but it’s misplaced. Tyrants aren’t creatures to be reasoned with. They’re weapons waiting to be unleashed, and if you give them even an inch of trust, they’ll take your head.”

She paused taking a deep breath. “I will give him one chance, but I make no promises.”

The fire in Seren’s voice startled Kieran, but it also fueled the simmering anger that had been building inside him since their last encounter with that Tyrant. He clenched his fists, unable to keep quiet any longer. “I told you, Inquisitor. They’re all the same. Just demons wearing human skin.”

Seren’s gaze snapped to him, and it was like being struck by a wave of cold. “Do not presume to lecture me, boy,” she said, her voice soft but carrying a weight that made Kieran’s heart skip a beat. “You barely even gave him trouble in your last encounter, and if I weren’t taking charge, you'd be dead by now. If you want to prove yourself worthy of this assignment, you’d do well to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.”

Kieran swallowed hard, feeling the sting of her words like a slap across the face. He nodded, muttering a quiet, “Yes, Commander,” but inside, his pride twisted into something ugly and resentful. Who was she to lecture him? To treat him like some child who didn’t understand the stakes?

Lyra shifted, drawing Seren’s attention back. Her gauntlet gleamed faintly with the light of the runes etched into it, each one representing a prayer to Carthys. “And what will you do if you find him?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “What will you do if he fights back?”

For a moment, Seren didn’t answer, her gaze drifting, almost lost. “The same thing I’ve always done,” she murmured, her tone softer, tinged with something like exhaustion. And for the briefest of moments, Kieran thought he saw something flicker across her face—regret, maybe, or something far deeper. “I’ll remind him that his chains can break.”

Kieran shivered. He’d heard the stories, of course—how Seren Valis had shattered the chains of Accursed who thought themselves invincible, how she’d left them broken, hollowed out, with nothing but the empty echoes of their former power. It was the kind of tale that older recruits told the younger ones, exaggerated ghost stories meant to instill fear and obedience. But now, watching her, seeing the weight of her words in her eyes, he wasn’t so sure they were just stories anymore.

“Commander,” Kieran began, hesitating, his voice sounding smaller than he intended, “why do you care so much? He’s just another Accursed. Should just be put to the spear, like all the others.”

Seren turned to him, and he could feel her gaze like a weight pressing down on him. “Tch, tell me, boy, is this truly your first assignment?” Her eyes narrowed, and her tone held the faintest hint of disdain. “I thought the Demon Hunters taught their own better than this, no you’re acting exactly how they would expect you to.

She took a deep breath “Unlike the God of the Hunt, Carthys believes in a fair trial, a concept I’m sure you’ve heard of but one that seems to have been lost in your… hunts.”

Kieran bristled at the insult but bit his tongue, unable to meet her eyes. “The Accursed are monsters. They don’t deserve—”

“Enough.” Her voice cut through his protest like a blade, and she took a step closer, her presence swallowing the space between them. “Tell me, then. Prove to me that they taught you something useful at that academy of yours. What are the different archetypes of the Accursed? Surely, they didn’t send you out here completely ignorant.”

Kieran blinked, caught off guard by the question. “The… archetypes?” He swallowed, his mind scrambling to recall the lessons drilled into him over years of training. “There are… there are three main types.”

“Go on.” Seren’s tone was razor-thin, an edge that promised pain if he disappointed her.

“The first are the Wardens,” Kieran began, his voice gaining a bit of strength as he recited the familiar information. “They rely on their own strength. They don’t depend on their demons and instead channel their power through their chains and bodies. They’re the most disciplined, the ones who train their abilities to the utmost. They're dangerous in a direct fight but lack the flexibility the others have.”

“Good,” Seren said with a nod, though there was no warmth in her eyes. “The next?”

Kieran took a breath. “The Jailers. They... they’re the ones who subjugate demons under their command, bending them to their will. They’re more resilient to corruption because they constantly reinforce their dominance, and their chains are more attuned to suppressing demonic influence. They’re effective in controlling their own power and can even use their demons’ strength as extensions of themselves.”

“Yes,” Seren said, almost impatiently. “And?”

“The third…” Kieran hesitated, the word sticking in his throat like a thorn. “The Tyrants. They’re the worst of them all. They can control both their chains and their demons, using the best of both worlds. But they’re also… they’re more susceptible to corruption because of the power they wield. Most of them end up succumbing to their own demons.

“Good,” Seren said, her tone icy and detached. “At least they didn’t send you here completely ignorant.” She paused, studying Kieran with a gaze that felt like frost biting into skin. “As Lyra mentioned, there’s a process to this. Wardens and Jailers are left alone so long as they keep their heads down. But Tyrants...” She tightened her grip on the Talisman at her side, the faint glow intensifying, “Tyrants must be handled with extreme caution. And when they can’t be controlled, they’re eliminated. Swiftly.”

Kieran frowned, unable to mask the anger and frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “But they’re dangerous! They have to be hunted before they—”

“Before they what?” Seren’s voice cut through his protest like a blade of ice. “Before they reach their full potential? Before they might, by some miracle, learn to control themselves?” She took a step closer, her expression hardening with each word. “You think every Tyrant is just waiting to unleash hell upon the world, don’t you?”

“They’re more powerful than the others!” Kieran shot back, his voice tinged with desperation. “You’ve seen what they can do. It’s only a matter of time before they snap. And when they do, it’s not just themselves they’ll take down—it’s anyone around them!”

“And that’s precisely why I’ll be the one to cut them down when they do,” Seren answered, her tone devoid of sympathy, her eyes cold and calculating. “I don’t hesitate, Hunter. The moment a Tyrant becomes a threat, their chains will be shattered, and they’ll be left as nothing more than a memory.”

She paused, letting her words sink in. “But I do not act until that moment comes. We are not executioners. We are the instruments of judgment.”

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Kieran clenched his jaw, fists trembling at his sides. “And how many have to die before you decide they’ve become a ‘threat,’ Commander? How many lives are worth risking just to give them a chance?”

“Every life is a risk, boy,” Seren said, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow felt more threatening than any shout. “The difference between us and the likes of you is that we understand that risk. We face it, weigh it, and then we make the hard choice. And if a Tyrant shows even the faintest hint of becoming uncontrollable…”

Her fingers flexed, and for a moment, Kieran could almost hear the sound of chains snapping under her grip. “I will break them without a second thought.”

Kieran bristled. “Then why not just kill them all now? Why pretend there’s even a chance?”

“Because,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “unlike you, I don’t confuse cruelty with strength. I don’t revel in the idea of snuffing out lives just because they’re inconvenient.” She leaned in, her presence swallowing him whole, the chill of her aura pressing against him like a suffocating weight.

“But don’t mistake my patience for mercy. If they cross the line, if they show even a glimmer of becoming the monsters you fear, I will deliver judgment. I will shatter their chains, and I will not lose sleep over it.”

Kieran stared at her, anger warring with a hint of something that felt uncomfortably like respect. “And what makes you so different, then? What makes you any better than me?”

Seren’s gaze softened, but only a fraction, her tone barely more than a whisper. “Because I don’t enjoy it. I don’t hunt them for the thrill, or the glory, or to make myself feel powerful. I do it because it is necessary. Because justice is not about pleasure. It is about balance.” Her eyes flicked to Lyra, who had remained silent through the exchange, her expression filled with a resolute concern. “And because there are still some who believe that even the condemned deserve a chance.”

Lyra took a step forward, her voice gentle but firm. “We’re not here to slaughter, Kieran. We’re here to keep the balance, to ensure that even those who’ve lost their way have a chance to find it again.” She glanced at Seren, as if seeking confirmation, but the Commander remained silent, her expression unreadable.

Kieran shook his head, unable to hide his disdain. “You’re wasting your time. They’re all monsters. Tyrants, Wardens, Jailers—it doesn’t matter. They’re all just waiting for the moment they can tear us apart.”

“Perhaps,” Seren said, her voice taking on that chilling edge once more, “But until that moment comes, we will not act out of fear.” She took a step back, her presence receding, but the coldness lingered in the air like a winter’s breath. “You’d do well to remember that, Demon Hunter.”

“Then why bring me along?” Kieran challenged, anger flaring anew. “If you don’t trust me to do what’s necessary, why am I even here?”

“Because you’re a blunt instrument,” Seren replied without hesitation. “And sometimes, that’s exactly what’s needed.” Her eyes locked onto his, unyielding and devoid of warmth. “But make no mistake, Hunter—if you step out of line, if you so much as think about acting without my order, I’ll send you back to the Acadamy without a second thought ”

The threat hung in the air, colder than any frost, and Kieran felt his mouth go dry. He’d expected her to be hard, but this… this was something else entirely. He nodded stiffly, unable to muster a response.

“Good.” Seren finally turned away, the tension in the air dissipating as if she’d simply decided the conversation was over. Her voice remained as icy as ever, each word carrying the weight of finality. “Remember this moment, Hunter. It’s the line that separates a servant of the gods from a mindless butcher.” She paused, her gaze drifting out toward the horizon, where the first light of dawn was beginning to edge its way across the sky. “We ride at first light. Prepare yourself and make sure your resolve doesn’t waver.”

Without waiting for a response, she walked away, leaving Kieran to stand there, feeling the chill of her words sink in. He watched her silhouette fade into the shadows, the ember of resentment still flickering in his chest, but he said nothing more.

"Rest up," she’d said, but he doubted sleep would come easy tonight.

As she walked away, Kieran found himself shivering, though the air around him had grown still. Lyra watched him, her expression softening with pity. “She’s not wrong, you know,” she said quietly. “There’s more to this than just killing. There always is.”

Kieran clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "Maybe for you," he muttered, keeping his tone even, almost indifferent, "But for me, it’s simple. They’re a threat, and threats need to be eliminated."

Lyra didn’t sigh this time. Instead, she simply regarded him with a neutral expression, her eyes unreadable. “That’s the difference between us, Kieran. I see lives, you see targets.” Her words were measured, spoken with a calmness that suggested she had no expectation of changing his mind. She glanced past him, already looking to where Seren had gone. “But I suppose that’s how the God of the Hunt prefers his followers—always chasing, never questioning.”

Kieran's jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond to the veiled criticism. “And your way is to what? Talk them into submission? Try to ‘understand’ the monsters we’re supposed to hunt?”

Lyra’s eyes flickered, the barest hint of annoyance showing. “My way,” she said coolly, “is to follow the will of Carthys. To judge fairly, without prejudice or bloodlust clouding my vision.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “That’s what separates us from the real monsters, Kieran.”

He snorted, crossing his arms. “Keep telling yourself that. But when the time comes, when that Tyrant lashes out, and you hesitate—don't expect me to do the same.”

“I wouldn’t,” she replied evenly. There was no heat, no passion in her voice—just a simple acknowledgment of the reality between them. “Your type never does.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, neither willing to back down, neither wanting to reveal anything more than necessary. They weren’t friends, not even close, but there was a mutual understanding, however thin, of the roles they played in this grim dance of power and duty.

With a final nod, Lyra turned and began walking in the direction Seren had gone, her steps purposeful and without hesitation. She didn’t look back. There was no parting advice, no attempt to soften her words.

Kieran remained standing, staring after her, his thoughts colder, sharper than before. “Soft-hearted fools,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. There was no room for hesitation, no time for the compassion that Lyra clung to like some talisman. He’d do what needed to be done, no matter the cost. He’d been trained for this, bred for this.

“Let her judge all she wants,” he growled, turning to head back to the barracks, the weight of his weapons pressing comfortably against his sides. “I’ll be the one putting down the monsters when it matters.”

The wind picked up, carrying the faint echo of footsteps as Lyra and Seren disappeared into the distance. For Kieran, there was no uncertainty, no lingering doubts. The world was divided into the hunted and the hunters, and he knew which side he stood on.

And if that meant cutting down anyone who stood in his way, Accursed or otherwise, so be it.

Kieran glanced back, watching Lyra’s retreating figure disappear into the darkness, his expression hardening into something resolute, unyielding. Her words, her attempts at reasoning—it was all wasted breath. He wasn’t here to understand; he was here to hunt.

He took a step back toward the barracks, his boots crunching against the gravel, and let the familiar prayer rise to his lips, something every follower of Malek knew by heart. “By fang and flame, by blood and bone,” he whispered, feeling the words anchor him, steady him, “for the purity of all that is good, the hunt shall never end.”

As he spoke, the warmth of the fire within him rekindled, a blazing light that cut through doubt and hesitation. There were no shades of gray in the world of a Demon Hunter—only the black of corruption and the white-hot blaze that purified it, that seared it away until there was nothing left but ash.

“May the prey tremble,” he murmured, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, “for the hunt shall never cease. By Malek’s will, the shadow shall fall, and the beast shall be felled. We are the fangs that bite, the flames that burn, and the judgment that delivers.”

He drew his blade just slightly, feeling the divine warmth pulse through the metal, the runes along its length flaring to life in response. “In darkness, we are the light. In doubt, we are the certainty. And by Malek’s hand, we shall never falter.”

He paused, letting the final words fall like the weight of a hammer, sealing the prayer into his heart. The last words hung in the air, resonating with a power that thrummed through his veins, filling him with the unwavering resolve that defined his kind. “For as long as there is breath, as long as there is shadow, the hunt shall go on."

And with that, he turned his back on the darkness, returning to his tent, eager to repay the Tyrant for the humiliation tonight.

/-/

The morning sun fought its way through a thick blanket of clouds, painting the world in muted grays and pale golds. I groaned, shifting on the makeshift cot in my tent as the first slivers of light pierced through the gaps in the canvas. Everything ached. My muscles screamed in protest as I rolled onto my side, and the dull throb from the wound in my side reminded me that, yeah, I was very much alive—and unfortunately, still in one piece.

Lucky me.

I shoved the ragged blanket off and sat up, wincing as the pain flared up again. "Morning to you too," I muttered bitterly to no one in particular, rubbing a hand over my eyes. It was too early for this. Too early to be worrying about Mantled or demons or whether the world would decide to crush me under its boot today.

The tent flap rustled, and I squinted as a figure stepped inside, silhouetted by the morning light. "Up already?" Saria’s voice cut through the fog in my mind. "That’s a first."

"Couldn’t sleep," I grumbled. The events of the night still played in my head—the chase, the fight, that damned Inquisitor and her blade flashing with lightning. "You know how it is. Nothing like being hunted down to keep a guy awake."

Saria stepped closer, her eyes flickering with concern as they landed on the blood-stained bandages around my side. "You’re hurt more than you let on, aren’t you?"

"I told you, it’s just a scratch," I muttered, though even I wasn’t buying it. "Besides, I’m still breathing, aren’t I?"

"For now," she said dryly, and for a moment, I thought I caught the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "But you won’t be if you keep going like this."

I shifted uncomfortably, tugging the blanket around my shoulders like it could shield me from the truth of her words. "Yeah, well, you’re always saying that."

She didn’t rise to the bait, instead reaching into her satchel and pulling out a small vial of something pungent. "Hold still," she ordered, dabbing a strip of cloth in the liquid. "This is going to sting."

I barely had time to brace myself before she pressed it against the wound, and I hissed through my teeth as the pain flared white-hot. "You could’ve warned me," I bit out.

"Where’s the fun in that?" Saria replied with a shrug. "You need to stop letting them get this close, Ryn. One of these days, you’re not going to be able to crawl back here."

I forced a laugh, though it sounded more like a wheeze. "And miss out on your charming bedside manner? I’d be lost."

She didn’t smile. Instead, she fixed me with that serious, almost motherly look she got sometimes. "You’re not invincible," she said quietly. "No matter how much you pretend to be."

"Yeah," I said, looking away. "I know."

Saria gave me one last once-over, her eyes narrowing in that way they always did when she was in healer mode. "There, all set. Try not to overdo it this time, alright?"

I managed a smirk. "You got it. Though I’ve got to say, didn’t expect someone as brawny as you to know how to handle bandages. Figured you’d just punch the wound until it closed up."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t bother hiding the hint of a smile. "Keep talking, Ryn, and I might just test that theory."

With a final sigh, she finished packing up her supplies and left, and I dragged myself out of the tent, wincing at every step.

As I made my way toward the communal fire pit, I felt the familiar weight of eyes following my every step. Not surprising, really. Tyrants always drew that kind of attention, even here in the Sanctuary. We were the ones who walked the thinnest line, the ones always teetering on the edge of becoming everything the Mantled accused us of being.

“Morning, Ryn,” a voice called out, and I looked up to see Kastor leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his broad chest. His chains were coiled neatly around his torso, each link etched with runes that glowed faintly in the morning light. “Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” I replied dryly, rubbing the back of my neck. “You know, waking up every hour, crying, wishing for death.”

He snorted. “You’re lucky to be joking about it, considering how close you came to getting yourself killed yesterday.”

“Well, I figured someone should keep things lively around here,” I shot back, shrugging. “Otherwise, you all might die of boredom.”

Kastor’s expression shifted, humor draining from his face. “You’re reckless,” he said quietly, his tone carrying that infuriating hint of superiority. “One day, it’s going to get you killed.”

I rolled my eyes, already tired of this conversation. “I’ve been hearing that since I was six, Kastor. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” he muttered, but he didn’t push it further. He jerked his chin toward the far end of the camp. “Morlen’s looking for you. Said it’s important.”

“Of course he is,” I sighed. “Why would I ever get a moment’s peace?”

The walk to Morlen’s tent felt like dragging weights through mud. Each step seemed heavier than the last, and by the time I ducked inside, I was already exhausted. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and smoke, the flickering glow of the fire casting shadows that danced across the fabric walls.

Morlen was hunched over a map spread out on a rough wooden table, his chains glowing faintly with their ember-like light, tightly coiled around his forearms. I couldn’t help but notice, as always, how tense they were—wrapped so snugly, like they’d been fused to his skin. It was different from how Jailers kept theirs. Most of them, like Kastor, let their chains show openly, linking perfectly and intricately tight as if it were armor, always eager to display their ‘perfect’ control. A reminder that they held their demons firmly in check, as if it was some kind of badge of honor. But Morlen’s chains weren’t for show. They were something else entirely. Almost like they were holding him together.

In contrast, I preferred to keep mine a bit loose, just enough to feel the freedom of movement, to remind myself that I was still in charge. Maybe it was my way of rebelling against the weight that came with being Accursed. Or maybe it was just easier to pretend the chains didn’t feel like they were tightening around my throat every damn day.

“You’re late,” he said gruffly, not bothering to look up.

“Nice to see you too, old man,” I replied, plopping down onto a nearby stool. “You know, you could at least pretend you’re happy to see me.”

Morlen finally lifted his head, eyes sharp and piercing. "What happened last night? You ran into Demon Hunters, didn’t you?"

“No,” I said, shaking my head. "Not Demon Hunters. Inquisitors."

His eyes darkened, and he let out a long, heavy breath. "Damn it, boy," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "You had to cross paths with them, didn’t you?"

"It wasn’t like I went looking for them," I shot back, the frustration bubbling up again. "They found me."

"That’s not the point," Morlen snapped. "You were supposed to be keeping a low profile! And now you’ve gone and tangled with Inquisitors of all people." He paused, his gaze

narrowing. “Did they mention anything about the Sanctuary?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “They didn’t seem to know. But how long do you think that'll last?”

Morlen clenched his jaw, the lines on his face deepening. "It won’t. Not if you keep drawing attention to yourself."

“This place is supposed to be neutral ground, isn’t it?” I challenged. “The Mantled agreed to leave us alone as long as we stay here.”

“Neutral ground or not, they’ve always had their eyes on us,” Morlen growled, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the walls of the tent. “And the Inquisitors—especially them—they follow the laws to the letter when it comes to dealing with our kind. Especially you. You know exactly what they do to those who step out of line.”

I crossed my arms, ignoring the dull ache in my side that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Why? Because we're Tyrants? It’s not like that’s news to anyone. They’ve never needed an excuse to come after us.”

“No, it’s not,” Morlen admitted, his voice softer now, more tired. “And that’s exactly why you need to be smarter about this, Ryn. You’ve heard the stories—what they do to Tyrants once they’re dragged off. They strip you of everything, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell."

"And what about you?" I asked, my eyes narrowing. "What do you know about what they do to Tyrants, Old man?"

For a moment, the older man didn’t answer. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled back the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a jagged brand burned into his forearm, half-hidden beneath the layers of his chains. “I know enough,” he said quietly. "Enough to tell you that if they get their hands on you, you won’t walk away with just scars."

A cold chill washed over me as I stared at the brand, the reality of what he was saying sinking in like a weight around my neck. “So what now?” I forced out, my throat dry.

“Now?” Morlen’s gaze pinned me in place. “You keep your head down. You keep your mouth shut. And when the Mantled come—and they will come—you make damn sure you

give them no reason to suspect you.”

“You want me to hide?” I scoffed, the anger flaring up again. “What kind of life is that?”

“One that keeps you breathing,” Morlen shot back, his voice hard as steel. “You think you’re invincible, but you’re not. You’re just another Tyrant to them, and they won’t hesitate to drag you away the first chance they get.”

“And you’re just going to let them?” I challenged, my chains rattling with the force of my anger.

“If it means keeping the Sanctuary safe? Yes,” Morlen said, without hesitation. "I’ll do whatever it takes to keep this place standing. Even if it means sacrificing you."

The words hit harder than any blade, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. “You don’t mean that,” I whispered, but even I wasn’t sure if I believed it.

Morlen sighed, the fight draining out of him. “No, Ryn. I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do what I have to.”

He turned away, the embers in his chains flickering like dying stars. “This is your last warning, boy. Keep your head down. Because if you don’t... I won’t be able to protect you.”

Silence hung heavy between us, thick and suffocating, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a single snarky remark to throw back. I just nodded, the weight of his words settling over me like a shroud.

With that, Morlen stepped out of the tent, probably off to do his usual morning rounds around Sanctuary. I stayed where I was, left alone with the weight of his words and the faint, echoing whispers of the demon that never let me forget.