Agony.
It was the first word he had ever known. The last word he would ever know. There was no before. No after. Only the slow, unending now—the methodical ruin of his body, the unraveling of his mind.
The boy did not have a name. He did not need one.
He was meat. Shuddered breaths. A rat trapped in a hole, flayed again and again by hands he could not see. For reasons unspoken.
Once, he had cried. Once, he had begged. Once, he had clawed at the walls of his prison, screaming for mercy, for death, for anything but the ceaseless torment. But no answer ever came. The cell was his world—a tomb of damp stone and rusted iron, so small he could not stand, so lightless he could not tell if his eyes were open or closed.
Sometimes, they came for him—hooded figures with cold fingers and colder blades. They spoke in murmurs, their words slipping through his grasp like smoke.
"The blood is resisting."
"Increase the dosage."
"Again—"
And then, the agony. Always the agony.
It came in different flavors. The sharp, clinical bite of needles sliding between his vertebrae. The slow, searing press of heated metal carving into his flesh. The worst was the chanting—the way the air itself thickened, the way his bones hummed like plucked strings before the true torment began.
Magick. It had to be.
Something wicked, something vile—the way it twisted inside him, contorting muscle and sinew, reshaping him from within. Spreading a dark, alien force that did not belong in his body. It hollowed him out, left him stretched and ravaged beyond recognition, until he was no longer a boy, but a thing of scars and shuddered breaths.
Time dragged on like this, each moment an eternity, and the boy slowly succumbed to his own bleak reality. Weeks? Months? Years? It could have been any. He wouldn't have known the difference.
Until one day—as if tested for the amusement of some sick god—the pain began to wane.
At first, he thought it another trick. A cruel jest from some unseen tormentor, lulling him into false hope before the next wave of suffering crashed over him. But the relief did not fade. Instead, it deepened, spreading through his broken body like warm water, washing away the jagged edges of his torment.
And then—a shattering.
The invisible walls that had confined his thoughts for so long crumbled, and suddenly, his mind was flooded. Sounds, colors, emotions—sensations long forgotten roared back to life, overwhelming in their intensity. Voices echoed, urgent and indistinct, but he could not grasp their meaning. His skull throbbed, his pulse hammering like a trapped beast. With great effort, the boy opened his eyes—
Light.
Real light.
It flooded the cell, and he recoiled like a whipped animal, his vision searing white. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the brightness bled through his lids, painting the inside of his skull in violent hues. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with instinctive terror. Then—a groan of metal.
The door.
It was opening.
His breath caught in his throat as footsteps echoed against the stone—close, too close. He braced himself, waiting for the hands, the knives, the needles. None came. Instead, a voice—soft, yet sharp as a blade's edge.
"Gods—"
A woman's voice. Young. Sultry. Laced with something he did not understand—something that made his skin prickle. Shivering, he dared to look up.
She stood above him, haloed in torchlight like an avenging spirit, her silhouette sharp against the bleeding glow. Silver hair—no, not just silver. Streaks of dark obsidian threaded through it, shimmering like liquid shadow beneath a crescent moon. Her skin was pale as fresh-fallen snow, her lips the faintest shade of violet, as if kissed by winter's bite.
And then—as she slowly removed the thin half-mask that covered the upper half of her face, the world seemed to still.
Her eyes.
They were not merely eyes. They were breathing portals—a hypnotic, swirling magenta within her irises, alive with depths he could not possibly fathom. Not a flat color, but a living thing, shifting like ink spilled into wine, pulsing with an otherworldly light. For the first time in his broken existence, he felt something other than fear.
Awe.
She was beautiful. Not in the way of a maiden from a song, but in the way of storms and wildfire. In the way of a blade freshly sharpened, of lightning splitting the sky. Hers was a beauty that hurt, that demanded reverence and terror in equal measure.
And she was staring right at him. As if through him. A pained smile tugged the corners of her now trembling lips.
"I-Icarus... is that really you?"
He did not understand. He could not understand. His mind was a ruin, his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, and his eyes shot frantically to the open door behind her.
It was a trap. A trick. It had to be. Any second now, his captors would come storming through that door to take him away—back to the knives, the needles, the chanting. He couldn't disobey. He couldn't bear it anymore.
"Icarus? Do you remember me? I know it has been a long time, but..."
She took a step closer, trying to meet his gaze, but he scrambled back against the wall, an oppressive fear gripping him. A trick. It was a ploy. That wasn't his name. She didn't know him. She couldn't have. No one did.
He shook his head violently, too petrified to communicate further.
She faltered, taking an unsteady step back. The small flicker of hope in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something darker. She swallowed hard, her melodic voice suddenly raw.
"You're kidding, right? Icarus, please tell me you're kidding. I know it's you—"
She seemed to size him up once more, truly realizing his tattered state—the sullen look on his face, his trembling shoulders, the long, gruesome scars littering his limbs and the cryptic trail of dark markings lining his torso beneath the shredded fabric of his shirt. An anguished, revolted look crossed her near-impeccable features, marring the hopeful smile she'd just carried into one reflecting her turmoil.
"I don't understand..."
A tall man suddenly appeared behind her—lean, his face sharing the same uncanny features she held. Even a similar half-mask, dark with a raven's beak to match their feathered cloaks. Instinctively, the boy reached a hand to pull her away from the man, but caught himself wearily. Uncertain of what came over him. Luckily, the two seemed to know each other.
"Sable, what are you doing? Why is your mask off? We don't have time for this!"
Sable. Her name was Sable.
She did not turn to face him. Her gaze remained fixed on the prisoner, her gloved fingers trembling—just slightly—at her sides. She stood motionless.
"Shrew. We're taking him."
The man—Shrew—bared his teeth, seemingly just noticing the boy with a disbelieving look. "What? Have you lost your mind? Look at him! He's half-dead already—"
"I said," Sable whispered, "we're taking him."
Something in her tone made him hesitate. He spared the boy a sharp glance of rebuttal, then shook his head dismissively. "Be rational," he pushed. "Tonight is not the time for your fool's errand. We haven't the numbers to ferret away every little mouse. Focus on the task—"
"It's him, Shrew. It's really him this time." Her voice was quiet yet clear, blanketed with a solemn tone.
Shrew's jaw clenched. He shot the boy a disheveled glare of impatience and—surprise?—that quickly vanished as soon as it came. Balling a fist, he did not argue further. Simply waving her ahead.
"Very well, but your father will learn of this."
Sable nodded, stepping forward.
The prisoner flinched, his body echoing old pains before thought could reach him. But her touch, when it came, was gentle. Cool, but gentle. Her fingers brushed his matted hair from his face, her thumb tracing the hollow of his cheek, and a shudder ran through him.
Who are these people?
A distant horn sounded. Shrew immediately cursed. "They know we're here—it won't be long now. I scouted two guards at the halls' bend, after that the corridor splits. I opt you take your pet to the wayshrine three floors down, but watch for traps. Go now, Sable, or we all die here."
Sable's expression hardened. Without another word, she slid one arm beneath the prisoner's knees, the other around his back, and lifted him as if he weighed nothing. The world quickly stretched around them, and he gasped, his hands clutching at her cloak as she launched them into a speed beyond anything he'd expected.
He fought desperately to contain the bile rising in his throat, too afraid to mar Sable's silken hair as it brushed against his face. A sweet, delicate scent filled his nose, soothing him, and for a moment, all else faded away. It was strong, inviting, a balm to his suffering.
Then the world slowed again, and the boy—Icarus?—was sent tumbling from Sable's grasp as she appeared to collide with a dark figure at the end of a corridor. Careening out of control, his head resounded against a stone wall with a loud crack, and everything flickered around him while she rolled across the floor with a large black mass. A thin trail of blood inked down Icarus' cheek as he battled to stay conscious. Seconds turned to minutes before he realized he was still awake.
A distant roar shook him slowly from the daze, movement spurring at the edge of his vision. A blur of silver-black danced across the torchlit corridor, locked in an altercation with a hulking, furred shape. The boy was barely able to keep his eyes on them as they blurred from one end to another, their brute strength enough to crumble the stone behind them as they grappled for each other's throats.
Shrew bolted from a chamber in the distance, similarly in a struggle but against two men clad in golden armor. Their swords glimmered in the torchlight as they swung meticulously parallel to each other, methodically poised to occupy both Shrew's front and back with precise strikes. He spun to defend himself with a long, crimson spear in his grip, clearly at a disadvantage.
Unfortunately for them, it didn't last.
Snarling in annoyance, he caught the end of one of the blades with the palm of his hand, the anguish on his face evident as a thin trail of blood oozed down the length of his right arm—but the sword held firmly in his grip. Shrew used the other hand to jerk the length of his spearhead within the folds of the man's ribs, just below the chestplate. Stunned, the second man had little time to dodge before Shrew used his full weight to kick the man in the torso, caving in his armor and smashing him against the stone wall, unable to move any longer. The wall imploded beneath the force of his kick, and the knight disappeared within its folds.
The boy could only watch in horror, unable to move, before Shrew suddenly looked up to meet his gaze. Bloodcurdling red eyes glared back at him through the hollow points of his half-mask. Before he could react, however, Sable's silver hair whistled nearby, and both their attentions turned just as a blinding streak of magenta light crackled and popped the air before sending the furred shape careening across the corridor, tumbling into a heap.
Silence.
Sable stood amidst the settling dust, her hand still outstretched, her glowing eyes blazing like a dying star as she heaved for air from being choked for so long. Sweat trailed her brow. Straightening himself, Shrew rushed to her side, his eyes on the limp shape.
"Lycans? Why are there Lycans here? They're supposed to be in Purgis, are they not?" He shot Sable an uncertain glance, and she returned it warily, eyeing the fallen body. Grasping his wounded palm, he inched forward, prodding the furred corpse with a boot.
Down the hallway, however, the prisoner's attention was entirely fixed on Shrew's hand, watching in astonishment as the torn flesh extending down to the wrist began slowly knitting itself back together as if being invisibly stitched, the blood easing to a full stop until there was nothing left but stains over his hand.
Was this—normal?
"—Must be a mole. This cannot be a coincidence. The siege in Purgis should have been more than enough diversion. First our dampener fails, now this? This facility should have been—" Shrew's voice trailed off as a wet bubbling noise began to seep from the beast's remains. Its flesh tinged green and acidic, a putrid smell soon wafted through the whole chamber, and the two strangers were left batting their eyes in distaste. With a sharp hiss, Sable's silent demeanor suddenly crumbled in recognition.
"That's no wolf—that's a Chimer—!"
A thunderous howl resounded through the walls, shaking the earth and sending bits of stone trembling down from the rough ceiling. A gut-wrenching horror gripped Icarus' heart in his chest, and the sound of beating grew louder in his ears. Something wicked, something malevolent drew close. It was above him, around him, below him. A suffocating, cold presence that buckled his knees and stole all reason away from him.
Sable's eyes shot to him as he fumbled to his feet, and she took a step to run toward him—before the entire length of the stone ceiling suddenly caved in on itself with the force of an explosion. The collapsing walls seemed to slow for an instant to as Shrew and Sable bolted down the hall, their forms stretching and warping into wisps of long shadow like a scene from a nightmare.
In the blink of an eye, the two met the boy at the end of the corridor, but as the earth continued to tremble, a wide, hulking mass the size of an oak tree began to rise from the debris of stone, towering over the torchlights and carving through the stone along each wall with its elbows. The boy's instincts took over, and he bolted for the stairwell, picking a direction and panting as his bare feet ran raw against the rough ground.
"Icarus—wait!" Sable called after him, trailing in his steps before a rumbling growl pulled her attention back to the towering shape. A growl so deep and so coarse that all air seemed to rush from the corridor as its monstrous pressure enveloped all present within the area, giving pause to those battling in the floors below, to those pillaging records in the chambers of madmen above, and to even those scouting atop trees outside, as plans for a quiet siege took an unexpected turn.
Sable met eyes with Shrew, her usually stern, stoic expressions fully upended tonight as they exchanged a look of mild shock at the sudden arrival. At the monster approaching them. "Is that—"
"The Beast of Murkmyre, yes," Shrew muttered with poorly concealed shivers as he matched glares with the Beast's smoldering, red eyes filled with malice. It bided its time, prowling closer with a gut-wrenching growl. "To bring it here this soon... when we find that cowardly mole..." Shrew bit down on his lip hard, blood flowing as if to reinvigorate his senses. "Go, take your pet and flee for Durstead, the wayshrine shouldn't be too far down. Inform Balrick. I will slow this—creature—down." He spoke softer and faster than an average ear could hear. She simply scoffed.
"No. I am not your damsel, and he will shred you before you can so much as blink. I think, perhaps, I have enough mana left to—"
"You got what you came for, did you not?" He shot back angrily. "I know what this means to you. Stop wasting time and get out of here! Before your pet gets himself killed."
Sable met his gaze unblinkingly, her features still and doll-like before shooting a finger to his chest defiantly. "Do not die," was all she muttered before storming off in Icarus' direction, her enhanced hearing already detecting the distant patter of his steps. The Beast had other ideas, however, as the second she spun the corridor, it tore across the space in a blur, leaving pure devastation in its wake before lunging like a rabid animal for her throat.
Except Shrew was ready.
Steeling himself, he met the wolf head-on, and together they tumbled like a cannon, both sent hurtling through a wall in an explosion of rubble and disappearing into the darkness beyond. Shrew's battle cry faded to a distant chamber.
Sable wasted no time and felt for thin pathways in the air, bolstering the mana in her veins to squeeze through the shadows and propel herself from corridor to corridor in the blink of an eye. There was a rumbling in the distance. Pushing away the discomfort in her chest, she paused to gather herself, letting the shadows reshape her limbs just as she noticed the boy—Icarus—being shouldered to the ground with a thud.
A broad, brutish man veiled in golden armor bent to take Icarus by the scruff of his neck, whose slurred protests fell on deaf ears. "Please... I can't..."
"That's enough out of you, whelp. Gods forbid you get yourself squashed down here. Heavens, what would her Eminence say? Years of work... gone!"A shrill voice quipped from behind the guard. Slowly, a shriveled man stepped forth, his skin dry and cracked, hair covered in soot, and milky eyes rolling wildly as he gestured impatiently. A golden medallion hung from his neck. Its emblem—an eye within a prism of diamond—marked him as an enemy. He beckoned for the soldier to follow him, similarly taking notice of Sable.
"Now who is—Bah! A woman! In my laboratories! Get her out of my sight, Bevis. And pass me the rat." The guard tossed Icarus carelessly upon the old coot, who simply raised a single hand and uttered a word, freezing the boy in the air behind him. Icarus could only groan in defiance as his feet dragged on the floor. Without a second glance, the old man strode away, muttering curses as he went.
Sable reached for the power in her chest again, preparing herself to Shadow Step once more. Except just as she was about to swerve around the guard, his javelin shot out into the folds of her smoky figure, defying all odds, and piercing her through the shoulder, pinning her to the wall with inhuman speed. A hiss of pain escaped her as she lurched forward from the momentum, tearing harder into the muscle. "How—" The words of surprise died on her lips. An augmenter.
"Neat trick, demon, but I've faced your kind before. The Huntsmen pay well for your sort. Shame I don't have the time for trophies today," The man's gravelly voice rolled like marbles as he cackled to himself.
"You're—a Huntsman," she muttered stiffly, more statement than question. The burning in her shoulder meant nothing—she'd endured worse.
"Once." Metal creaked as he leaned closer. "Better days, better pay. Now I'm stuck here in the looney bin." His grimace showed yellowed teeth as he gave the spear another vicious twist. "Either way, this ends—"
Sable's hand shot up, magenta energy crackling between her fingers. The soldier quickly dodged with augmented speed—but she wasn't aiming for him.
Her fingers closed around the javelin shaft.
And pulled.
The barb tore free in a spray of crimson. Before the Augmenter could react, Sable was upon him—a silver-and-shadow whirlwind of violence. Blood spraying from the wound in her shoulder, she used it to paint the man's face, obscuring his vision. Still stunned by the glow of her hands, he was unable to pivot away.
Her first strike shattered his vambrace. Her knee crushed his greave inward. Fingers like steel talons found the gaps in his armor, twisting and tearing.
The soldier roared, countering with augmented strength that cratered the wall where Sable's head had been. She flowed around him like smoke, her movements a deadly dance honed through years of rigorous training. The tide quickly shifted.
When his swing overextended, Sable struck—palm slamming his breastplate with enough force to dent the golden metal inward. The Augmenter staggered, armor now his prison as the deformed plates pinched flesh and restricted movement.
Sable didn't let up.
Her next blow drove him to his knees.
Her following kick sent him skidding across stone.
Blood pumped through her chest, and she used it to fuel her focus, reaching for the pool of mana within her and coaxing her intent through her arm, aiming for the man. She spoke, the words distorting the air with power as they left her lips:
"Contundito."
Bright, glimmering light erupted from her palm. The beam struck true, wrapping the Augmenter in a coruscating aura. Grasping the air in her fist like a puppeteer, she clenched. His eyes widened as his armor began to compress.
First the pauldrons crumpled like parchment, crushing the shoulders beneath. Then the breastplate folded inward, ribs snapping like kindling. Gauntlets compacted around hands, fingers bursting like overripe fruit.
The Augmenter's screams turned wet as his world became pressure and pain, his magnificent armor now a sarcophagus of twisting metal. Blood seeped through the seams as the shimmering energy pulsed—until all that remained was a grotesque sculpture of gore and ruined steel. Slowly, she released her grip on the Weave.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Sable brought herself to kneel by the remains, running a hand along the red fluids and quickly grazing it across her wound. After a moment, the flesh bubbled around the shoulder, spreading an itch as her body rushed to repair itself. Taking the fallen javelin in one hand, she made for where Icarus was dragged away.
Disfigured bodies soon littered the corridors, the smell of death thick in the air. It was clear others shared her sentiment of escape through the wayshrine below. Some corpses she recognized—others clad in the familiar decorum of the Ravenites, their masks cracked or torn on the floor. Her heart pounded as she recognized some of the faces.
Those she led, those she camped with, those she'd fought alongside or asked to come on her journey. Big or small, they were her burden to carry, regardless of what anyone said. She understood that, coming to terms with it long ago.
Tearing her eyes away, she quickened her pace forward, launching off a stone stairwell down to the bottom-most floor with calm grace. A worrying scent met her nose as she fell, filling her mind with nostalgia and unease as her feet landed softly on hard ground.
These years had not been kind to him. His scent was nearly unrecognizable now, as was his aura. Beyond his condition, beyond the dirt or grime. It was as if he was an entirely different person, or a mix of many, she could not tell. His aura was thin as parchment, devoid of any color or life. And his eyes...
A ball formed in her throat as she ran, a deep exhaustion beginning to gnaw at her. So many years she'd spent recalling the loving scent of her friends, their knowing smirks, their welcome company. They were her anchor, her first home in those terrible times, and one by one she'd lost them all. To these inhumane people, these twisted fanatics, these psychopaths. First Gavin...and now...
She shook her head, tearing herself away from the thoughts threatening to swallow her. No. It wasn't too late. Not as long as he lived and breathed. They could be a family again. She just needed to...
"Stop whining like a lost puppy! I can't think and your stench is making me nauseous!" Like nails on chalkboard, a shrill voice echoed down the hall, followed by the sound of a loud smack and some whimpering. Sable's heart leapt in her chest and a surge of anger poured out of her. She strained past the fatigue in her core and let the shadows take her, soaring through the air like a vulture and aiming for the back of the man who'd struck her anchor.
The world blurred around her until the two were just within arms reach. Curving around Icarus, she swung for the old man—before left frozen in the air.
A single palm was aimed toward her, thin and withered with age. A set of rings glowed ominously upon the man's hand. Turning to face her, a thin smile played on his lips. "I'd learn to tame that rage of yours, missy. I felt you storming in like an ox in a library," he cackled to himself, his milky eyes rolling in his head like stray marbles.
Sable strained against her invisible shackles, beside herself with irritation. Twice now she'd allowed those less than her to outmaneuver her. Twice now she'd lost her temperament in ways that seemed impossible to anyone who knew her now. Shadow Step was near untraceable by usual standards, so was she just losing her touch? No. She was distracted. Turning to Icarus, she took note of the large red welt on his face. He avoided her gaze, shrinking as if he wished to disappear.
She turned back to the man, finding him staring, sizing her up like a broken toy. A small shudder ran up her back. She did not know him, but she knew his kind. Monsters. Murderers. Madmen. "Now, this is a surprise. You charged like a night dweller, yet...your mana...hm. How curious." He ticked his tongue, furrowing his brows and eyeing her warily. "You look familiar too, have I opened you before? In my age, I begin to lose track—"
A fire sparked inside of Sable and she snarled in his face, held back by an invisible barrier. Straining a few feet off the ground, the air around her rippled from the effort. The man broke into a toothy grin. "Ahh, I have, haven't I? Must've been some time ago. Decommissioned perhaps? Bad egg? Or maybe we misplaced you. Lemme get a look here." He straightened his palm, and she grew rigid in its grasp. Sauntering up to her, he reached behind her ear and turned her head, displaying a set of marks on her neck.
1174
"Ohh," his eyes grew wide and he swiveled from Sable to Icarus with recognition, a mix of amusement and mild surprise on his face. "I see now. Having ourselves a little reunion, aren't we?"
A panicked frenzy overcame her and she felt herself succumb to the instincts she thought she'd grown past by now. Her face contorting, her teeth aching, all her senses roared to life and the blaze within her burst beyond her sternum to every inch of her flesh. She was fury incarnate, and this man would pay for what he'd done to them. To all of them.
Icarus trembled beside her, unable to believe his eyes. The striking visage of marbled beauty once akin to a goddess before, was now snapping and snarling like a rabid animal in the air beside him. The whites of her eyes replaced with a red so dark it was nearly black, veins wormed to life around her eyes, snaking down her neck. And her teeth—now fangs with twin points sharp as a steel blade.
His legs buckled beneath him, and he fell to the ground. His body rattled like a bag of bones, chills running up and down his arms with a cold so deep he felt that it would never end. The torches along the walls seemed to flicker and dull in agreement, as if her very presence here was a vacuum of all life and heat.
Is everyone here a monster?
Wrapping his arms around himself, a realization dawned on Icarus. He was no longer bound. Flexing his arms and legs, there was no longer any pressure. No strain, no barrier preventing him from fleeing. He could leave. He glanced up at the other two, seemingly lost in an invisible struggle with her restraints. Whatever she'd done, the man appeared to have diverted all focus to binding her, both his palms out in front of him and a large vein bulging from his temple.
Not wasting any time, Icarus stepped around the man towards a door at the end of the hall, the balls of his feet bleeding as he went. He'd raced only a few short steps forward before something in the back of his mind dragged him to a stop. Akin to an itch, it festered and spread an unease at the prospect of his actions. What the hell was he doing?
His throat was dry, his hands clammy and knees trembling. Yet still, something else tugged from the corners of his mind. A feeling.
Slowly, Icarus turned to Sable and the man once more, locked in a mental struggle that sent distorting ripples across the air around them like smoke over a campfire. They took no notice of him. He could feel the pressure exerting from them as he approached, like walking through a sea of tar. Why was he turning back? Was he a fool? Suicidal? He did not know. He tried to reason with himself. To find some method of rationality.
This creature—Sable freed him from an unending torment—that much was true. She was under no obligation to help him flee. This much was true too. But why? What was the grand scheme? Where was the reason in all this? Did she truly know him? Understand him? Could she tell him who he was?
He drew closer, no longer able to keep his footing. The air around them was charged like lightning, buzzing and crackling with energy. It clouded his barely organized thoughts and resurged waves of panic back into his chest. He knew nothing. He was nothing. And this lady, what's to stop her from hurting him too? To use him like an object the way he had been for as long as he could remember.
No, no, no. Don't think. Just act. Focus.
A small voice in the back of his head pushed him forward, quieting the fear that dwindled him down to a meager rat only capable of simple bodily functions. He refused to go back. He couldn't bear it. He had to do something. Anything. Crawling down to their feet, Icarus stretched a hand through the murky air, reaching out for a long, gleaming length of silver Sable had dropped. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up, steeling his arms straight, and—
Pierced the javelin through the man's back.
...