Morveyn woke up in a foul mood.

He lay still for a long moment, eyes fixed on the intricate carvings along the canopy of his bed. The heavy air of the room, laced with the faint remnants of perfume and smoke, clung to his skin like a second layer. His limbs felt sluggish, his mind thick with exhaustion. Sleep had been a fleeting, restless thing—shallow, fragmented by nightmares that left his body tense and his thoughts raw. No amount of rest could erase what the night had carved into him, nor could it shake the feeling that he was waking into something worse.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from the haze.

Without waiting for permission, a young servant boy stepped inside. He moved quietly, though not hesitantly. He had been performing this duty long enough to understand when his master wanted words and when he did not. Today, however, there was something in his posture—an unspoken concern that lingered in the careful way he approached the bedside.

Morveyn barely needed to glance at him to recognize the familiar figure—Dain, the boy assigned to his personal service. Young, quick-witted, and perceptive beyond what was comfortable, Dain had long since learned the unspoken rhythms of his master’s life. But today, his usual professional detachment wavered ever so slightly.

“Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t prepare the bath in advance. I didn’t wish to disturb your rest.” His voice was steady, but his eyes flickered over Morveyn's face, searching.

Morveyn exhaled slowly, pushing himself upright. The sheets slid off, and the cool air against his skin immediately reminded him of what he had neglected—his nightly binding. Normally, Dain would secure his abdomen with a wide strip of cloth before bed, keeping the worst of the morning pain at bay. But last night, returning just before dawn and collapsing straight into sleep, he had skipped the routine entirely. Now, the absence of any support left his scarred flesh raw and aching, the familiar discomfort settling deep into his gut like a punishment for his negligence.

Dain noticed. His sharp gaze flickered to the barely visible mark beneath the fine fabric of Morveyn’s nightshirt—a relic of survival that his master always kept hidden. But he said nothing, only stepping forward to help him to his feet, his movements careful, deliberate, as if uncertain whether Morveyn was steady enough to stand.

The water was warm. Too warm. Morveyn let it sting against his skin as Dain worked with practiced efficiency, washing away the remnants of the previous night. The silence stretched between them, but it was not empty. It was filled with all the things they did not say.

Finally, as Dain wrapped him in a linen cloth, he murmured, “It was dangerous, sir.”

Morveyn’s lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk if it had any real amusement behind it. “Is that concern I hear?”

Dain’s hands tightened briefly on the cloth as he carefully worked Morveyn’s damp hair into smooth sections, beginning the meticulous process of drying and styling. The ritual was a familiar one—something that had been repeated so many times that both of them could move through it without words. Yet today, the silence carried weight.

Dain hesitated, then finally spoke, his voice low. “Whatever is decided at the council today, my lord… I will remain on your side.” He wanted to say more—perhaps even name the worst possibilities aloud—but the words caught in his throat.

Morveyn met his eyes in the mirror, his expression unreadable. “However my fate unfolds, Dain, I am still responsible for my people.”

On the bedside table, a neatly folded letter already lay prepared, addressed to Aizel. A few crisp banknotes rested beside it—a quiet assurance that, should things take a turn for the worse, the boy would not be left unprotected.

Dain noticed it and stiffened slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I’ve no intention of begging you for charity, my lord. I worry for you.” But despite his protest, he inclined his head in silent acceptance, hands steady as he continued to smooth Morveyn’s hair.

“Thank you,” he murmured at last, and this time, the words carried no resistance—only quiet resignation.

Morveyn's smirk softened, just slightly. "Loyalty is a dangerous thing, Dain. Be careful where you place it."

Dain said nothing, only continued his work. He fetched the fresh uniform, smoothing the fine fabric before helping Morveyn into each layer. The falconet uniform fit him perfectly, every button fastened with careful precision, every fold arranged just so. When Dain reached for the cravat, the boy opened his mouth to say something, but Morveyn lifted a hand, stilling him. "One more thing."

Morveyn gestured to his writing desk. “There’s another letter.”

Dain obeyed without question, his fingers brushing over the plain envelope before tucking it away. He hesitated for the briefest moment before glancing at Morveyn. “Another private request?”

Morveyn smirked faintly. “I assume you don’t expect an answer to that.”

Dain exhaled sharply but didn’t press further. He knew better than to pry—yet the weight of the task still settled across his shoulders.

Good. A little caution would serve him well.

Morveyn turned back to the mirror, adjusting the fold of his cravat with deliberate ease. The Roots would be discreet in unsealing Neergaffen’s records—financial transactions, shipments, anything the baron had touched. A quiet trail of paper leading to something bigger, if he was lucky. The last thing he needed was Dain getting curious about it.

“Be careful,” Morveyn added. “And quick.”

Dain nodded. “Am I expecting a reply?”

“No. Just leave it and go.”

Another pause. Dain shifted his weight, as if weighing the wisdom of speaking further, then sighed. “You keep asking me to be discreet, my lord, but sooner or later, someone’s going to notice how often you send these kinds of messages.”

Morveyn arched a brow. “That’s why you’ll make sure no one does.”

Dain pressed his lips together, but he nodded. His loyalty was not blind—he wasn’t the type to follow orders without question. And that was exactly why Morveyn trusted him more than most.

As the boy turned to leave, Morveyn reached for another slip of parchment, scrawling a separate request before sealing it just as swiftly.

“And this one?” Dain asked, watching as Morveyn held out the second envelope.

“I need to know where the man who kept the Red Branch Academy archives is working now. If he still has access to older records.”

Dain’s brows lifted slightly. “The same records that turned up empty?”

“Maybe they were empty because I was asking the wrong person.”

Dain took the second letter without further comment, slipping both into the inner pocket of his coat.

“You’ll be discreet,” Morveyn murmured.

Dain gave a wry, knowing smile. “As always, my lord.”

Satisfied, Morveyn finally allowed Dain to finish tying the cravat, watching the crisp precision of his movements in the mirror.

“The Protectorium officers are already waiting outside your door, my lord. Whether they are here to accompany you or to escort you as a prisoner… it’s hard to say.” Boy sayd.

Morveyn’s lips curled into a wry smirk. The thought of being ‘escorted’ by men whose names and service records he knew better than their own families was almost amusing. Every soldier stationed at the Hawk’s Nest had crossed his path at least once, and he could pick them out from a crowd with ease. If this was meant to feel like a formal arrest, it was doing a remarkably poor job of it.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, adjusting his cravat with practiced ease. “How terribly intimidating. My own men, solemnly preparing to drag me through the streets like some petty thief. I should at least have the decency to feign concern.”

Morveyn met his gaze in the mirror, his eyes alight with quiet amusement, the smirk still lingering at the corner of his lips.

Dain, however, did not share his amusement. His expression remained carefully composed, but there was something in his eyes—not quite fear, but close. He did not smile at Morveyn’s remark, nor did he offer any reassurance. Instead, he finished tying the cravat with precise efficiency, stepping back as if unsure whether he should say more.

“Are you worried about what they’ll decide?” Morveyn asked, his tone oddly light. “Don’t be. It doesn’t matter to me what they come up with.”

Dain hesitated. "I think, my lord, that you rarely care how they judge you. But sometimes, thinking of your own safety instead of constantly taking the blows just because they can't kill you—would be the wiser course."

Morveyn chuckled, shaking his head. "So now I must endure lectures not only from old men but from my own servant as well."

Dain’s hands faltered for just a moment, nearly undoing the intricate knot he had been working on so meticulously. It was a small slip, barely noticeable, but enough to betray that he understood the weight of his own words. What he had just said was bordering on insolence.

Morveyn arched a brow, amusement flickering in his expression as he watched Dain carefully fix the mistake, his fingers moving with renewed precision.

Dain took a slow breath before responding, his voice quieter but unwavering. "I'm saying this not as a servant, my lord, but as a friend."

Dain finished tying the cravat, stepping back to assess his work. The boy’s hands did not remain idle, though—he reached for the long, fitted gloves that had become an another essential part of Morveyn’s attire. With steady fingers, he tightened the leather straps, securing them in place with practiced precision. The ritual was nearly second nature by now, but Dain never rushed. Each strap was drawn snugly, each buckle fastened just so.

Morveyn flexed his fingers slightly, feeling the familiar resistance. The gloves, combined with the endless layers of fabric and the binding across his torso, dulled the ever-present hum beneath his skin—the sensitivity to the Schism, the discomfort of his own unnatural existence. This, at least, he could control.

The familiar pressure was a necessary weight, a final touch to the carefully assembled façade. Yesterday, he had indulged himself quite enough, letting his hands wander over anything and anyone, and now the unpleasant whisper of his conscience pecked at him relentlessly.

Morveyn flexed his fingers once more, feeling the reassuring constraint of the gloves before exhaling slowly. The weight of the morning routine settled over him like a familiar cloak—measured, composed, calculated. Finally, he met Dain’s gaze, and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Let’s not keep them waiting, then."

Two stalwart guards stood at his door, their postures rigid, their faces composed into careful neutrality. As he stepped forward, they snapped into a crisp, formal salute—acknowledging him not as a prisoner, but as their superior officer. They did not step forward, nor did they make any unnecessary movements, simply waiting in silent expectation. Their presence was not unexpected—his father adhered to protocol as rigidly as ever, even within the walls of his own estate.

Morveyn cast them a cursory glance, noting with some amusement that his father had chosen only the best for this task. To protect him or to ensure he could offer no resistance? The answer was impossible to determine, and that, in itself, was almost entertaining. Moving toward the exit, he walked ahead, leading the way as the officers maintained a respectful distance behind him. In this, at least, they adhered unwaveringly to protocol—keeping their place in the hierarchy, demonstrating deference. It was particularly amusing, considering their destination. This was not the first time he had walked between such a formation, but the context was different now.

At the base of the stairs, the waiting transport gleamed under the morning light. Everything was in its place—nothing out of order, nothing left to chance. He stepped into the vehicle without hesitation, sinking into the seat and resting his gloved hands on his lap. The guards took their places on either side of him, disciplined and silent. They exchanged brief words with the driver, but Morveyn paid them no mind. The city beyond the window slipped past in a blur—streets, faces, the ebb and flow of the morning crowd—all of it distant, unimportant.

The journey stretched on, measured in silence and the dull hum of the wheels beneath them. Familiar streets blurred with unfamiliar ones, landmarks passed unnoticed. Morveyn’s gaze remained unfocused, the facades of buildings slipping past without meaning. It felt as if the world had shrunk, pressing inward, reducing everything to the slow, relentless ache coiled in his chest.

Then, the Tree Palace came into view.

The sheer grandeur of it pierced through his numbed indifference. He felt it in his gut, the weight of history and power pressing against him as the transport slowed. The palace loomed, its towering spires adorned with intricate carvings and sculptures, each one telling a story older than memory. Sharp roofs cut into the sky, their gilded edges glinting in the morning sun. The entrance arch, woven with elaborate patterns, gave the illusion of movement—stone figures locked in an eternal dance of fate and ambition.

Faces of saints and martyrs gazed skyward from the massive gates, their features etched with silent supplication. Chubby cherubs clutched wreaths and trumpets, frozen in a celebration of divine order. And scattered among them, grotesque beasts of different branches stood locked in poses of vigilance, their twisted forms symbolizing the council’s united forces.

It was breathtaking. And utterly suffocating.

The Confederation of Allied Regions (CAR) is a vast and intricate state, a patchwork of floating territories bound together by an elaborate web of tunnels. These chaotic passageways weave through the fabric of existence, linking lands that otherwise have no natural connection. It is as if the Sleeper had shattered reality into countless fragments and hastily stitched them back together, leaving behind an imperfect but functional whole.

Each of these territories, called regions, is assigned a sequential number based on mass and stability. This numbering is deliberate, reflecting a necessary balance within the Confederation’s framework. The first hundred regions, the most fertile and stable, are considered prime holdings, offering prosperity to those fortunate enough to dwell within. Each territory serves a distinct purpose: some flourish with agriculture, others advance knowledge and magical research, while others are fortresses safeguarding the Confederation’s outer boundaries. These lands are governed by noble houses, ruling as hereditary stewards of their domains, with the notable exception of Teak An, the capital.

Despite the variety of these lands, all regions fall under the authority of the Council of the Tree, the Confederation’s supreme ruling body. The Council comprises representatives from the different governmental factions, each known as a Branch. These Branches form the backbone of the state, each responsible for governing a particular aspect of life within the Confederation.

The Council serves not only as a governing institution but as a symbol of unity and balance, embodying the intricate harmony between disparate elements of the state. This delicate equilibrium allows the Confederation to function despite its vast complexity.

Each Branch bears a distinct color, marking its sphere of influence and responsibilities:

* Green Branch of Fertility: Oversees agriculture, growth, and reproduction. Its emblem, the emerald frog, represents renewal and life cycles. Members specialize in fertility artifacts and rituals, enhancing harvests and aiding childbirth. From rural midwives to the chief obstetrician of the capital, all wear the frog’s insignia.

* Blue Branch of Knowledge: Manages educational institutions, archives, and training academies across the regions. Its symbol is the hourglass, signifying the passage of wisdom through time. Every instructor and scholar trained by the Blue Branch ensures the continued enlightenment of the populace.

* Violet Branch of Creation: Led by the Senior Artificer, this branch is dedicated to magical research, artifact crafting, and the refinement of saap crystal energy. Artificers refine raw saap into potent, controlled magical sources, crafting amulets, enchanted tools, and mechanisms vital to daily life. The owl, a symbol of wisdom and magical mastery, marks their work.

* Copper Branch of Compassion: Devoted to healing, caretaking, and end-of-life services. This branch encompasses hospitals, hospices, and rituals for those afflicted by magical distortions. Symbolized by the fiery salamander, its practitioners ease suffering and confront the painful realities of chaotic magic’s consequences.

* Golden Branch of Aspiration: Oversees communication, transportation, and exploration. The Quartermaster-General commands this branch, governing the Confederation’s intricate portal network. Its sigil, a yellow bird with an arrow in its beak, represents swift movement and discovery. New transport routes, uncharted tunnels, and unexplored realms fall under their jurisdiction.

* Crimson Branch of Protection: The militant arm of the Confederation, responsible for rooting out corruption and enforcing order. Led by Grand Protector Menno Lyuteakh, its emblem—a red, winged wolf—embodies vigilance and martial prowess. The Crimson Hand ensures that dangerous doctrines and unchecked magical experiments do not take root within the Confederation’s domains.

Above all stands the Crown, the seat of supreme authority, embodying the state’s unity. The Supreme Chancellor, elected by the Council, wields immense power, coordinating all branches and making strategic decisions. This position also controls the secular police, responsible for maintaining law and order. Though appointed, the Chancellor can only be removed by an absolute majority vote from the Council, leading to an ongoing web of political machinations and power struggles.

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At the foundation of this vast structure lie the Roots, a separate but crucial entity dedicated to preserving the state’s traditions, records, and customs. Though they do not directly govern, the Roots ensure continuity and stability within the Confederation.

The Roots perform many essential functions, including officiating ceremonies, chronicling significant events, and overseeing the vast bureaucratic mechanisms that maintain state cohesion. They study ancient texts, maintain archives, and manage administrative processes that keep the government functioning smoothly. The brown-clad Archivist leads this branch, safeguarding the Confederation’s historical memory.

The Confederation operates under a philosophy of mutual cooperation—or at least, that is the narrative presented to the populace. In reality, the balance of power is a delicate illusion, a constant struggle of influence between branches and their leaders. The art of politics is not merely about governance but about maneuvering, negotiation, and securing dominion over the ever-shifting landscape of power.

These were the lessons Menno Lyuteakh had mastered long before his son had been born, the principles he sought to instill in Morveyn. Understanding the grand chessboard was essential. Yet the wayward child of the Crimson Hand seemed determined to learn only by taking blows himself, heedless of how many others suffered in his wake.

The sting of that thought unsettled him. He forced himself to maintain his composure as he stepped into the vast vestibule of the Tree Palace.

At the heart of the hall stood a monumental sculpture—a colossal tree, its many branches representing the ruling Council. This was no ordinary tree, but a symbol of the Confederation itself, its every limb and leaf woven with the intricate histories of the regions it governed. The spiral staircase winding around the trunk led to the Hall of Assemblies.

As he ascended, Morveyn studied the detailed carvings upon each branch. Great battles, alliances, scientific breakthroughs, and tragedies were etched into the stone, a silent record of triumph and sacrifice. The delicate craftsmanship gave an illusion of weightlessness, yet Morveyn knew better. Without the support of saap crystals and delicate counterbalances, the entire structure would collapse beneath its own mass. Much like the Confederation itself.

At the summit, beneath a domed ceiling of enchanted glass, the Assembly Hall awaited. Light filtered through the transparent panels, illuminating the mirrored walls. The design allowed for illumination without heat, the result of careful magical engineering. Morveyn smirked at the irony—humanity, existing only by taming the forces of schism, still remained at the mercy of its power.

It was said that visitors from the other side always came seeking something in return. The Confederation only ever took.

The thought was heretical, and he quickly suppressed it. No one had ever managed to truly communicate with the beings beyond, nor to understand their motives. Village shamans who bargained for favors in exchange for sacrifices were dismissed as primitive fools. And yet, were they not more honest than those who took without offering anything in return?

What kind of Great Balance was it if all they did was take?

He let out a quiet breath, pushing the thought aside as he stepped onto the Assembly floor.

The hall was circular, its very architecture reinforcing the illusion of equality. In the center stood a raised platform where speakers presented their cases. Today, that platform belonged to him.

The seats of the elders surrounded it in a perfect ring, each one watching with the weight of centuries behind their gaze. Today, they would judge him.

And Morveyn had no illusions about mercy.

The fact that the hearing on the Ao Teien case was held in the Tree Palace rather than the Palace of Justice underscored the extraordinary nature of the proceedings. The council chamber, usually reserved for weighty matters of state, had become the stage for a performance that had already been rehearsed behind closed doors. Typically, cases of negligence were not presented before the full Council, but today was different. The spectacle had to be convincing.

Instead of the usual flood of journalists and onlookers clamoring for a glimpse of scandal, the Great Assembly Hall contained only the Heads of Branches with their closest advisors, a representative of the Crown acting as judge, and a gray-haired chronicler from the Roots, meticulously recording the session's minutes. It was a carefully curated audience, ensuring that nothing unpredictable would derail the performance.

It was clear that Menno had wasted no time. Whatever Morveyn had reported the previous night had already been dissected, analyzed, and relayed to the elders before the session had even begun. The incident in the 78th region had been declared a state emergency, and the outcome of this tribunal had likely been settled before Morveyn had even set foot in the hall.

When his turn came to speak, he answered questions methodically, his voice devoid of embellishment. He recounted his arrival following the red signal, omitting his detour to Te Algeize. He described assisting Lord Volt in loading the evacuation convoy before proceeding to the control center. From there, he had witnessed the signs of an approaching wave and had made the decision to close the Potern. Given the urgency, he stated, notifying Lord Volt had been impossible. He accepted full responsibility and, in measured tones, expressed his willingness to endure whatever consequences the council deemed necessary to restore the good name of the Lyuteakh family.

This, naturally, was met with measured nods of approval. It was high time, after all, to rein in the reckless falconet.

Before Aizel took the floor, vetted journalists were allowed into the hall. Their presence confirmed that this trial was not just about addressing the situation—it was about managing public sentiment. The citizens, incensed over the loss of their homes, needed to see that justice was done. They needed a face to pin their grief upon, a display of contrition that would pacify their outrage. Morveyn, watching the scribes jotting down notes with lightning speed, idly wondered how much of today’s proceedings had already been pre-written.

Then, Aizel took the floor, and the script shifted. His report painted a different picture—one in which Morveyn was not merely an officer executing a harsh but necessary decision, but a man of unwavering resolve, who had saved countless lives through his decisive actions. Aizel’s words reframed the narrative, transforming a reckless mistake into a strategic sacrifice. The room listened carefully. The council did not need a scapegoat; they needed a lesson. A tragic figure, if necessary—but not one that would undermine the Protectorate's authority.

Listening to his friend’s speech, Morveyn barely resisted the urge to applaud. He was well aware of the weight Aizel carried on his shoulders—handling the evacuation, keeping a panicked crowd in check, distributing resources, managing every detail while Morveyn had, in essence, done nothing but ruin all he touched. And yet, rather than rest, rather than claim the sleep he had more than earned, Aizel had spent his night crafting this stirring narrative, spinning Morveyn into the image of a dutiful officer rather than an unmitigated disaster. At the very least, Morveyn owed him a case of fine wine. Preferably from Ao Teien—but considering recent events, the remaining stocks were bound to skyrocket in price.

For the briefest moment, he entertained a fleeting fantasy—spending a few quiet months in prison, a reprieve from duty, from expectation, from playing the role assigned to him. Imprisonment seemed almost restful. Flogging, however…

Menno rose with the deliberate grace of a man accustomed to commanding the room, his presence alone enough to still the murmurs. He did not simply take the floor—he claimed it, as if it had been his from the start.

“For reasons well known to all of you, I cannot agree to the imprisonment of Falconet Lyuteakh," he began, his voice ringing with authority. "His skills are essential to us in these troubled times. No one can replace his instincts, his intuition—both of which have already saved countless lives. We cannot afford to waste them.”

The words were calculated, his tone deliberate. He let the weight of them settle before continuing.

“For the same reasons, I cannot endorse flogging—his health is fragile, as this council well knows. Recovery from such a punishment would be long, and we cannot afford to sideline him for months. However—”

A pause. Perfectly timed. The audience, already captivated, leaned in just slightly.

“The young Lyuteakh still has his duty to society.”

There it was—the moment of suspense, the dramatic beat before the final act. The air in the chamber thickened. Even the journalists, pens hovering above their pages, seemed to hold their breath.

“As a father,” Menno said, eyes settling on Morveyn at last, “it is difficult for me to say this. But as a commander, I have no choice. I propose a punishment of fifteen days in the Well.”

The response was immediate. A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room, followed by murmurs of disbelief. Morveyn saw it in their faces—shock, intrigue, and, from a few of the more seasoned politicians, grudging admiration. The Well. The punishment reserved for the worst criminals, a place of darkness, deprivation, and slow death. It was more than a sentence; it was a spectacle in itself.

Menno continued, unbothered by the murmurs.

“This will allow Falconet Lyuteakh to return to his duties in sixteen days, ensuring minimal disruption to the Protectorate’s operations. Furthermore, it will be a punishment severe enough to quiet public outcry. A sentence befitting the gravity of his actions.”

Morveyn barely heard the rest. He didn’t need to. The verdict had already been decided long before he set foot in the hall. Since the abolition of public torture and the guillotine, the Well had become the most brutal punishment in existence. For murder, one could be sentenced to fifty days, for robbery—thirty, for grand theft—fifteen. But none of that mattered, because the real horror of the pit was not starvation or thirst—it was the madness of those thrown in alongside you. The ones who lost themselves in the dark, consumed by fear and desperation, who would do anything to claw their way to another dawn. There were prisoners who never lasted five days. Others who did survive—but at an unspeakable cost. Menno’s proposal was not a suggestion; it was an inevitability. This was not justice. This was theater, and he was the lead actor in a play he had no control over.

How very convenient.

He had expected public disgrace, expected to be paraded as a symbol of failure. But this?

His father was clever. Too clever.

Half an hour ago, he had been a scapegoat, a reckless child in need of discipline. Now, the tide had turned. Now, he was to be a tragic figure, a necessary sacrifice for the greater good. The weight of pity, of admiration, of calculated respect, was being placed upon his shoulders before he had even been thrown into the pit. If he survived, he would return not as a disgrace, but as a man who had paid his penance and emerged stronger.

A perfect pawn. A perfect tool. Sending an aristocrat to the Well was nothing short of a death sentence, and yet his father had done it with the full expectation that he would walk out of it alive. Menno knew. Of course, he knew. He had put this punishment to a vote not because he had any doubt about its passing, but because he knew, out of all the options on the table, the pit was the only one Morveyn would truly fear. The only one that could still remind him of his place. Not just a public disgrace, not just a symbol of failure—no, that would have been too simple. Morveyn was being made into a spectacle, a performance piece, the son of the Crimson Hand cast down into the filth for all to see. And when he climbed back out? He would belong to Menno in ways he never had before.

Distantly, he heard the motion pass. The council voted—narrowly, of course, to maintain the illusion of choice—but Morveyn was under no delusions about how those votes had been cast. He knew exactly who had aligned with the Protectorium, whose allegiances had already been secured by his father before this spectacle had even begun. The names of those who fell in line were all too familiar to him, a well-maintained list in his mind. This was not a spontaneous act of governance; it was the culmination of careful string-pulling, and the execution of a sentence decided long before he had ever set foot in this hall.

Camera flashes blinded him as the Crown representative, playing the role of impartial judge, struck the gavel against the desk.

Two stalwart guards stepped forward, taking him by the arms, their touch more ceremonial than forceful. Their role was not to drag him away like a criminal, but to guide him with all due reverence. They shielded him from the throng of journalists pressing forward, hungry for a closer shot.

It was decided—the sentence would be carried out immediately.

No time for farewells. No time to prepare.

No time to breathe.

Under escort, Morveyn was led to a police unit, a squat and ugly vehicle. Protectorate guards and his father followed in red Protectorium mobiles, accompanying them to the site. The Well was located opposite the Palace of Justice, where convicts usually began their sentences. But since Morveyn's trial had taken place in the Hall of the Great Assembly in the Palace of the Tree, a long procession through the city streets had gathered a huge crowd of onlookers. News had spread like wildfire, and soon everyone wanted to witness the fate of the infamous Lyuteakh.

Morveyn knew his own notoriety well—he had been a subject of intrigue and speculation for as long as he could remember. Wherever he went, whispers followed, and today was no exception. The city's elite, commoners, and gutter press alike had come to witness the spectacle. His reputation as the enigmatic falconet of the Crimson Hand, both admired and feared, turned his downfall into the most anticipated event of the season. The merchants and aristocrats of Teak An relished scandals of this magnitude, and this was the juiciest morsel in years.

He seriously feared that the crowd might start to riot and try to overturn the unit or pelt it with stones. Apparently, the elder Lyuteakh had the same concern, as a squad of Wolves reliably covered them from all sides. But Menno Lanius's calculation, sentencing his own son to the Well, paid off. People who had wanted the blood of the arrogant aristocrat just that morning were now murmuring in sympathy. When he finally stepped out of the unit, a collective sigh of sorrow rippled through the crowd.

The police convoy led him to the platform of the scaffold. The soldiers stepped aside, leaving him standing at the parapet on the edge of the gaping, foul-smelling maw of the giant well. Disheveled, with tousled hair—the police hadn’t been particularly gentle while transporting the prisoner—his gray eyes burning, Morveyn’s slender figure looked rather tragic. Now, with his usual polished appearance slightly worn, it was hard to believe he was more than 17 years old.

He turned, searching for his father. To his surprise, Menno was standing unexpectedly close, just a step behind. Taking advantage of his privileges as a Crimson Hand, imposing and intimidating, he had taken it upon himself to announce the sentence publicly. Speaking loudly and clearly, as he would when giving orders to his Wolves, he declared that Morveyn Drael Lyuteakh was hereby sentenced to 15 days in the Well.

To the great astonishment of the crowd and Morveyn himself, Menno repeated his heartfelt speech about the hard times and his hope that after 15 days of confinement and a sixteenth day to regain his strength, young Lyuteakh would return to his duties as a falconet of the Crimson Hand. No one, he said, had the right to neglect their responsibilities in such dire times.

Morveyn listened to his father's voice, drowned out by the rising roar of the crowd and the pounding of his own heart. He still couldn't believe what was happening. Anger, humiliation, despair—all mixed within him, vibrating like taut strings. His father knew all too well how much he despised this filth, the stench, the vile miasma of the cesspool he was about to be plunged into. He knew that the hardest part for Morveyn would be the lack of choice. He would be left with nothing but to defend himself, to think only of his survival. He knew that his son would prefer to hang for a hundred hours on the rack alone than to descend into the predatory darkness below—breathing, watching, hungry. Of all the punishments, this was the one he would have avoided at any cost.

The Well was a death sentence for most. It was not just a matter of starvation or dehydration—those were the merciful fates. The true horror was the other prisoners, many of whom had already succumbed to madness. Trapped in the dark, deprived of food, and left with nothing but the primal urge to survive, the weak became prey. Men ripped each other apart in desperation, willing to resort to anything to prolong their own miserable existence for just a few more days. Cannibalism was not just whispered about—it was an expectation. Few ever lasted their full sentence. Fewer still emerged unbroken.

Finishing his speech, Menno turned to his son and, so that only Morveyn could hear, said:

"When you take it upon yourself to dispense justice, my son, be prepared to be judged in turn."

The vibrating strings in his chest snapped in an instant. Does he know? Does the old man know about last night? Or is he referring to the Potern of Ao Teien and his unauthorized decision? It took all his strength not to flinch, not to change his expression. The thought that his escapades in the brothel—or worse, the preparations for them, the dirty friendship with the baronet, and how low he had sunk to execute his plan—that all this had reached his father... Morveyn felt his face burn, unable to maintain his composure.

It was this photograph—his feverish eyes taking up half his face, flushed cheeks, disheveled locks falling onto his forehead, and the imposing figure of his father behind him—that would later grace the covers of all the newspapers. While he sat in the well, surrounded by death-row inmates, the impressionable ladies of the capital and the provinces would gaze regretfully at the handsome face on the front page. Anyone could see that even if by some miracle the young falconet emerged alive from the well, he would likely never be this handsome again.

The guards stepped aside, nudging the prisoner toward the special platform at the edge of the well. The narrow stone step wobbled unpleasantly underfoot—too narrow for comfort, too unsteady to offer any illusion of control. From this vantage point, the pit gaped beneath him, a hungry maw carved into the earth. A cold, foul-smelling breath rose from its depths, damp and heavy, settling on his skin like filth that could never be washed away. A crude reminder that no one emerged from the Well untouched.

Morveyn forced himself to keep his posture steady, though every instinct screamed at him to turn, to look one last time at the light above. He would not give his father that satisfaction. He kept his chin lifted, his expression composed, but his mind worked feverishly, dissecting Menno’s parting words, running through every possibility. If Menno had found out about the brothel, how…? The thought clawed at him, but there was no time to chase it further.

The step beneath him lurched, and he began his slow descent into the abyss.

The noise of the crowd faded as the walls of the Well swallowed him. Shadows stretched and deepened, thickening into impenetrable blackness. The last thing he saw before sight failed him was the shrinking circle of light above, ringed by distant, blurry faces. The last thing he heard was a single scream from someone in the crowd—a woman’s voice, wrenched with something close to grief.

Then the stench hit him.

It was the stench of rotting bodies, of unwashed flesh, of excrement and decay layered so thick it had become part of the air itself. It coated his throat, his tongue, settling deep in his lungs like a living thing.

A sickening wave of familiarity crashed over him, a memory clawing its way up from the pit of his mind. This place—this choking, smothering darkness—he had been here before. Not here, exactly, but somewhere like it. Somewhere he had convinced himself was only a nightmare, only an echo of fevered childhood delusions. But now, standing on the edge of the unknown, he knew with absolute certainty: this was real.

The step jerked to a halt. Morveyn had no time to adjust—his balance wavered, and the platform tilted sharply, spilling him forward. He landed hard, rolling instinctively, the impact jarring through his bones. The floor was damp and uneven beneath him, the scent of wet stone mingling with the overwhelming filth. For a moment, he remained still, adjusting to the silence.

It didn’t last.

A chuckle broke the stillness, low and guttural. Another followed. Then came the whispers, the sound of shifting bodies, of bare feet scraping against stone. They had been waiting for him.

His eyes had not yet adjusted, but theirs had. They had lived in this darkness long enough to see him—his silhouette, his movements, his hesitation. A fresh body, a newcomer. Prey.

"Look what they’ve thrown down to us," a voice sneered from the black. "A fine little lordling. Or is it a lady?"

Laughter rippled through the unseen figures, cruel and delighted. The sound of footsteps surrounded him—slow, purposeful, closing in. The air pulsed with the rank heat of too many bodies, too little space.

Morveyn exhaled slowly, forcing his body to uncoil, forcing his thoughts to sharpen. There was no room for hesitation here, no room for fear. He had lived among wolves all his life—what difference did it make if they walked on two legs instead of four?

"Guess my father’s the only one having a great time here," he thought, seething. He must find it hilarious that I’ll have to claw my way through filth just to make it out alive. Drowning me in the mud—his latest favorite pastime.

His fingers found the intricate knot at his wrist, and with a single sharp tug, he ripped it apart with his teeth. The glove loosened, slipping free. The last thing he wanted was to touch anything in this place, but if they wanted to get close…

Let them try.

He rolled his shoulders, tilting his head slightly as the first shadow moved closer.

For the next two weeks, that irritating little voice of conscience could kindly shut the hell up.