The next day, Mel wandered the streets, clad in a fox costume with the words “Drink at the Orange Pub!” emblazoned on his chest. “Mr. Jude said I should wear this to blend in, but I think he’s just using me to advertise his pub,” Mel muttered to himself, adjusting the costume as he strolled. “Where should I even look for answers? The kingdom? Definitely not.”

He pulled out his black card and started scrolling through it, his thoughts a jumbled mess. After a few moments, he came across a message from his friends. Relieved, he quickly typed back, assuring them that he was okay. Then, his eyes fell on a picture—Anita and Henry, locked in a kiss. Without thinking, he closed the card with a snap and stuffed it back into his pocket.

“That's why I care,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with bitterness. “It’s the same reason I helped Layla in that alley—I’m protective. I can tell when someone’s uncomfortable, when they need help. But she wouldn’t let me help her.”

Shaking his head, he exhaled sharply and refocused. There was still a search to continue, and he couldn’t afford to get lost in his emotions now. He had answers to find.

Back in Solstice City, Anita sat in her room, her body tense as Henry leaned over her, pressing his lips against her neck. She stared at the ceiling, her expression blank, masking the storm of emotions raging inside her. Forced to comply, she let him kiss her, but the moment she felt his hand trail up her leg, a surge of panic overwhelmed her.

“Stop,” she said firmly, her voice trembling but resolute. She pushed against his chest, and he leaned back slightly, an infuriating smirk spreading across his face.

“What’s wrong? Scared?” he taunted, his tone dripping with mockery. He let out a low cackle, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

Anita sat up, putting some distance between them. “This wasn’t the deal. You said just kissing,” she snapped, her voice sharp but laced with unease. She rubbed her swollen lips, trying to steady herself.

Henry’s smirk only widened, his laughter cold and menacing. “Right, that was the deal. But here’s the thing: deals change,” he said, his tone casual yet threatening. “And speaking of changes, your dear friend Melanthius? He’s about to die.”

Anita froze, her breath hitching. “What do you mean?” she demanded, her voice barely above a whisper.

Henry leaned closer, enjoying the power he held over her. “I sent him to Shivermire,” he said nonchalantly, as if discussing the weather. “They’ll kill him quickly—painlessly, even. So there’s no need for you to worry. Now,” he grabbed her wrist, pulling her back toward him, “let’s not waste any more time. Get back here.”

Anita’s body stiffened, her instincts screaming at her to resist, but the weight of words—Melanthius, in danger—kept her frozen. Shaking, she nodded reluctantly, letting him kiss her again, even as her mind screamed for an escape.

In the frosty streets of Shivermire, Mel stepped into a dimly lit lounge, the warmth of the interior contrasting sharply with the biting cold outside. The soft glow of lanterns illuminated a scene of lively chaos—people gathered around gambling tables, exchanging coins and hushed whispers, others drinking and roaring with laughter at private jokes. The clinking of glasses and the shuffling of cards echoed through the room.

Mel, still wearing the oversized fox mask that Jude had insisted on for his "disguise," stood awkwardly at the entrance for a moment. The exaggerated, cartoonish grin of the mask seemed out of place in the gritty, smoke-filled atmosphere. Brushing off the stares from a few patrons, he made his way to the center of the lounge.

“I want to know if anyone has any information on Merlin Shadowbane,” Mel said bluntly, his voice carrying over the noise.

The room fell silent, as if someone had yanked a needle off a record. Heads turned toward him, and all the warmth in the room seemed to drain away. Some patrons froze mid-drink, while others exchanged knowing glances. A burly man at a nearby card table set his cards down deliberately, his sharp eyes narrowing at Mel. A woman in the corner, who had been laughing moments before, leaned back in her chair, studying him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

The bartender, a tall, wiry man with a grizzled beard, stopped polishing a glass and rested his hands on the counter. “You’ve got some nerve, kid,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Shadowbane’s a name that doesn’t sit well in Shivermire.”

A man seated by the fire snorted, taking a long drag from his cigar. “You looking for a history lesson, or are you just trying to get yourself killed?” he asked with a smirk, his tone dripping with menace.

Mel stood his ground, folding his arms. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” he replied evenly, though the intensity of the stares made his skin prickle. “I just need answers.”

The woman in the corner chuckled, the sound icy and sharp. “Answers?” she repeated mockingly. “Honey, the only thing you’ll find asking about Merlin in a place like this is a grave.”

“Unless,” the burly man interjected, standing up from his seat, “you’re one of his.” His voice was low and threatening, and his towering frame loomed over the room. “In which case, you’ve got more guts than brains walking in here.”

Mel tightened his jaw, feeling the weight of the situation. “I’m no Shadowbane,” he said carefully, his voice steady. “But if you know anything—anything at all—I need to hear it.”

The bartender exchanged a glance with the burly man, then sighed and reached beneath the counter. Mel tensed, readying himself for anything, but the man only pulled out a dusty bottle of whiskey and poured himself a glass. “The Shadowbane name isn’t just trouble—it’s cursed,” the bartender muttered, taking a sip. “You’d do better to leave this city and forget you ever asked.”

But Mel stood firm. “That’s not an option,” he said. “I need the truth.”

The silence lingered for a moment longer before the woman in the corner tilted her head, a sly grin spreading across her face. “You’ve got fire, I’ll give you that,” she said. “There’s a man in the old district—calls himself Silas. If anyone in Shivermire knows about Merlin Shadowbane, it’s him. But I wouldn’t go knocking on his door lightly.”

The burly man scoffed. “You sendin’ the kid to Silas? Might as well send him to the gallows.”

“Hey,” the woman replied with a shrug, “he asked for answers. That’s where they are.”

Mel nodded, determination hardening his features. “Where can I find him?”

The bartender sighed again, shaking his head. “You’re a damn fool, kid,” he said, scribbling an address on a torn napkin and sliding it across the counter. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Silas doesn’t take kindly to strangers—or to questions about the Shadowbanes.”

Mel took the napkin, tucking it into his pocket. As he turned to leave, the weight of the room’s stares followed him. The murmur of voices resumed behind him, but the tension in the air remained palpable. Outside, the cold bit at his face, but his resolve burned hotter than ever.

“Silas,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the note tightly. “Let’s see what you know.”

Mel followed the address scrawled on the napkin, weaving through the snow-dusted streets of Shivermire’s old district. The air grew colder and the streets quieter as he approached the edge of town. Finally, he stood before a small, weathered hut that looked like it had been forgotten by time. Its walls were warped, the wood darkened by years of exposure to the elements. The single window was fogged, concealing whatever lay inside, and a crooked chimney puffed weak trails of smoke into the wintry air.

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Mel hesitated for a moment, glancing at the surroundings. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the distant howl of the wind. Tightening his grip on the edge of his cloak, he stepped forward and pushed the creaky door open.

Inside, the air was thick and suffocating, reeking of rot and decay. The dim light of a single lantern cast long, flickering shadows across the room, revealing walls cluttered with strange artifacts, jars of unidentifiable substances, and piles of old, crumbling books.

Before Mel could take another step, a figure emerged from the darkness. The old man was hunched, his spine twisted into unnatural angles. His skin was pallid and stretched tightly over his bones, his long, greasy hair hanging in tangled strands around his face. But it was his eyes—or rather, the emptiness where they should have been—that froze Mel in place. Hollow sockets stared at him, yet the man seemed to see him perfectly. His lips were cracked, curling into a sinister grin that revealed yellowed, jagged teeth.

“Well, well,” the old man rasped, his voice a dry, grating whisper that sent shivers down Mel’s spine. “Another fool looking for answers.”

Mel instinctively reached for his black card, but before he could respond, the old man raised a gnarled hand. From his fingertips, a putrid green mist began to seep, filling the room with an overwhelming stench. The smell was unbearable—like a mix of rotting meat, sulfur, and something far worse that Mel couldn’t even identify. He staggered, his vision blurring as the smell assaulted his senses.

“Answers come at a price,” the man hissed. “And you’re not ready to pay.”

Mel tried to speak, to fight back, but his knees buckled. The room spun wildly, the shadows growing darker and more oppressive. He felt his body hit the cold, damp floor as the old man’s laughter echoed in his ears. The stench was all-consuming, suffocating him as consciousness slipped away like sand through his fingers.

The last thing Mel saw before the darkness claimed him was the old man crouching over him, that horrifying, hollow face leering with malicious glee.

Moments later, Mel stirred, his head throbbing and vision blurred. As he blinked to clear his sight, the cold reality of his situation settled in. He was trapped in a steel cage, suspended in a dimly lit room. The metallic smell of blood and damp stone filled the air, sending a chill down his spine.

A face appeared inches from the bars, pale and cruel, with sharp, angular features that seemed to cut through the shadows. It was Silas, his lips curling into a sinister smile.

"Ah, Melanthius Shadowbane," Silas purred, his voice smooth but laced with malice. "You really thought you could sneak around Shivermire unnoticed? Cute. But Henry—our dear young master—tipped us off. He said you’d come sniffing around. And guess what? He was right." Silas chuckled, his icy eyes glinting with sadistic amusement.

Mel clenched his fists, testing the bars of the cage, but they didn’t budge. His strength was still sapped from whatever had knocked him out.

Silas reached into his coat and pulled out a case, snapping it open to reveal an array of gleaming needles. He selected one, holding it up to the dim light as if admiring its craftsmanship. “You see,” he continued, his tone mocking, “I work directly under the young master as his trusted butler. And let me tell you, he does not take kindly to meddlers. So, here’s the deal: this…” he waved the needle with a flourish, “is your execution.”

Mel’s heart pounded, but he forced himself to smirk through the panic. “A butler, huh? Can’t say I’m impressed. Most butlers I’ve met serve tea—not torture.”

Silas’s smile faltered for a brief moment, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. “Ah, the infamous Shadowbane wit. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you don’t have the tongue to use it for much longer.”

He stepped closer to the cage, the needle gleaming menacingly. “You’ve poked your nose into matters far beyond your comprehension, boy. But don’t worry—your suffering will be over soon enough.”

Mel’s mind raced as he watched Silas draw nearer, the sound of the needle’s metallic tip scraping against the bars sending shivers down his spine.

“You won’t escape,” Silas sneered, his voice dripping with cruelty. He gestured to the cage with a mocking flourish. “This little masterpiece? Completely wizard-proof. While you’re here, let’s play a game. I’ll give you the answers to the questions you oh-so-desperately crave… well, not to enlighten you, of course, but to torture you. Every revelation will come with a sting—literally.”

Before Mel could respond, Silas suddenly jabbed a needle under his fingernail. A searing pain shot through Mel’s hand, and he let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed off the walls.

“First fun fact,” Silas began with a smirk, as if he were delivering a lecture. “Your father, Merlin Shadowbane, single-handedly conquered an entire continent. Quite the resume, isn’t it?” He leaned closer, watching Mel’s contorted face with twisted delight. “But I suppose you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Mel panted, his chest heaving as he tried to process the agony. Before he could recover, Silas struck again, stabbing another needle under the same fingernail. Another scream tore from Mel’s throat, raw and guttural.

“Let’s move on, shall we?” Silas chuckled darkly. “Merlin wasn’t just a conqueror. He wielded a plethora of magical powers, unmatched in his time. If you had even a fraction of his abilities…” Silas paused, his smirk widening into a grin. “Well, we’d be having a very different conversation right now. You’d kill me without breaking a sweat.”

Mel gritted his teeth, clutching his wounded finger, but despite the pain, he didn’t resist. He endured it, desperate for information, his mind latching onto every word.

Silas twirled another needle between his fingers, savoring the moment. “Now, here’s a little secret you probably don’t know.” He jabbed the needle again, the sharp pain nearly blinding Mel with its intensity. “You were thrown into prison as an infant by the Magisterium—a council of nine of the most powerful wizards in existence. Quite the honor, really.”

Mel gasped for air, his vision blurred by tears as Silas rattled off the names of the council members, each one landing like a hammer blow: “Silver Cross. Franky Arbutus. Aubrey Primrose. Gail Kelpis. Christopher Hatch. Howard Pegas. Axel Candlelight. Emmett Fingerling. Judas Olive.”

Silas leaned in closer, his tone taking on a sinister glee. “All powerful wizards, each with their own reasons for fearing you. And here you are, their prisoner once again. Poetic, isn’t it?”

Mel’s mind reeled as he tried to process the revelation. The pain was excruciating, but the truth was even more agonizing. The names etched themselves into his memory, a puzzle waiting to be solved. This isn’t over, he thought grimly, his resolve hardening even as Silas prepared another needle.

Silas raised an eyebrow, his smirk shifting into something almost inquisitive. “Before I jab you with the next needle, let me ask you something,” he said, holding the needle up for emphasis. “Why did you really come here, Melanthius? Surely it wasn’t just to find answers. And let’s not forget—you took advice from a guy you backhanded like a street dog. Be honest.”

He began preparing more needles, the glint of metal catching the dim light. Mel clenched his fists, his breath uneven as he tried to block out the anticipation of pain. He winced but finally spoke, his voice low and strained.

“I just…” He hesitated, his words coming slower than he wanted. “I wanted a reason to run away. Everything felt so heavy. My friend—Anita—she’s… dating Henry. And normally, that’d be fine, I guess, but there’s something off. She doesn’t seem like herself around him, like she doesn’t want to be there but has no choice. And when I punched him…”

Mel’s voice wavered, the memory fresh and sharp. “It made me look like a jealous idiot. I don’t want to be that guy. But I can’t shake the feeling—” He faltered, staring down at his trembling hands. “I don’t know why I care so much, but I think… it’s because no matter how hard I try, I can’t save her when she doesn’t want to be saved. It’s like I’m fighting a battle she won’t even let me join.”

Silas chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “Oh, Melanthius. You’re so busy playing the tragic hero that you don’t even see the real picture, do you?” He leaned against the cage, his face inches from Mel’s. “Let me make this crystal clear for you, boy.”

He tapped the cage with the needle for effect, his voice turning cold. “You didn’t come here to run away. You came here because deep down, you want a purpose. Something bigger than your petty guilt and juvenile savior complex. That girl? Anita? She’s just your excuse—a pretty distraction from the real truth.”

Mel blinked, confused, but Silas continued before he could speak. “The truth is, you don’t know who you are. You’re chasing answers about your father, your past, and this destiny you think you’re supposed to have because you’re scared to death of what you might become without them. You’re afraid of being… ordinary.”

Silas jabbed a needle into the air, making Mel flinch. “Your goal isn’t to save anyone—it’s to save yourself. You think finding out about Merlin will give your life some grand meaning, that it’ll explain why you were thrown into the chaos you’ve been drowning in since birth. But let me tell you something, Mel.”

He stabbed the needle into the wooden table beside him, the sound sharp and jarring. “No one cares about your search for meaning. Not Henry, not Anita, not even your so-called friends. The only person who cares is you, and that’s why you’re here. Not to find answers—but to give yourself one. To make yourself matter.”

Mel’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. Silas leaned closer, his grin cruel. “And you think you’re noble for it? That’s cute. But let me ask you this, hero—when it all falls apart, and it will, will you still cling to this little dream of yours? Or will you finally break, like everyone expects you to?”

The room fell silent, the weight of Silas’s words pressing down like a shroud. For the first time, Mel wasn’t sure if the pain in his chest was from the needles—or the truth.