Life for Rudra was settling into a fragile kind of peace. The raw wounds in his chest were closing, the hollow terror that had lived behind his eyes easing into something softer. He laughed more. He learned to sit in the sun. He let people be near him without flinching. For the first time in a long while, he felt — if not whole — then at least bearable.
Alex, though, did not rest. He moved through the city like a man who could not sleep: meeting captains from other divisions, testing blades with mercenaries in shadowed courtyards, listening to the songs of hired fighters in taverns until dawn. He was hunting a single thing — a companion for Rudra who was as steady as iron and as loyal as blood. None of the men he found fit the bill. None of them had what Alex wanted. The failure sat in him like a stone.
Elden Virel noticed. Once the vice-commander of Division Eight, now an officer of the King's court, Elden had the habit of noticing things other men missed: a late carriage, a whispered name, a soldier who returned home with mud on his boots and no blade on his side. Alex's secret meetings had become a pattern, and whispers had a way of growing teeth. Before long, the rumor reached the court.
One evening, after lanterns had turned the streets into rivers of orange, Elden came straight to Alex's office.
"Long time no see, Elden. What brings you here?" Alex said without standing.
"There's a rumor flooding through the divisions," Elden answered. "It's started to worry me."
Alex arched an eyebrow. "Don't tell me it's about Division Eight."
Elden's mouth tightened. "It's not the division itself. Some of my men have seen you meeting fighters from other divisions, street fighters, mercenaries. People are talking. The court is asking questions."
Alex closed his eyes for a heartbeat. "I knew it wouldn't stay hidden forever."
"They want me to explain," Elden said. "And you know I can't refuse orders from the court."
Alex's jaw clenched. "If I tell the truth, someone could be put at risk. Someone's life depends on this staying quiet."
"Then you must trust me," Elden said. "If it's as serious as you say, let me help. Don't face it alone."
"Come with me," Alex said after a long breath.
"To where?" Elden asked.
"To my brother's trading company." Alex rose and moved for the door as if the decision had been made some time ago. Elden followed.
The carriage rolled through wet streets. Rain had polished the cobbles to black glass. By the time they arrived at Richerd's trading house, the building's white marble caught the city lights and threw them back like an accusation.
In the reception Rudra stood beside the desk where Lumi sat. He was smiling — the kind of small, open smile that seemed to surprise even him. Alex watched it for a second; the sight loosened something inside him. He walked up to the desk with soldierly ease.
"Hey, miss. I'm Alex — brother of the owner. Is Richerd here? I need to see him. Urgent."
Rudra heard the voice and turned. "Uncle Alex! Nice to see you. How are you?"
"I'm well," Alex said, unable to keep the softness from his voice. He laughed once. "Looks like someone is enjoying his time."
Rudra reddened. "It's not what you think. We're just friends."
Lumi's laugh was a warm bell. "Please, you two continue. I'll inform Master Richerd of your arrival." She moved away, light on her feet.
While they waited, Alex asked quietly how Rudra was adjusting, how the days felt. Rudra answered in small, steady phrases. When Lumi returned, she waved them upstairs. As Alex turned to leave he gave Rudra a grin and a teasing shove.
"Enjoy your youth, Rudra. Don't let it slip away," he said.
Rudra muttered, red-faced, "It's not like that, you old geezer!"
Elden had been watching. There was something about Rudra's posture, something in the way he shifted his weight that prickled a memory at the edge of Elden's mind. But the spell Richerd had placed — the soul-binding, the fog that dulled certain memories — kept the recognition from forming. Elden only felt the ache of a missing link.
"Who is that boy?" Elden asked quietly as they walked upstairs. "I feel like I've met him before."
"You'll get your answers soon," Alex said. "Come."
They reached Richerd's study. Richerd rose with the ease of a man used to being waited on. He embraced Alex with practiced warmth.
"Look who's here," Richerd said, smiling. "I thought you'd forgotten your poor brother."
"Forget you? Not a chance," Alex answered, pretending annoyance. "You've been a troublemaker since day one."
Richerd's eyes flicked to Elden. "And who is our guest?"
"This is Elden Virel," Alex said. "He was vice-commander of Division Eight and now works for the King's court."
Elden inclined his head politely. "It's an honor. But I'm not here for pleasantries. The court has heard rumors about Lord Alex — about his recent company. I came to seek the truth."
Richerd's expression tightened a beat. Then he remembered the ward he'd set and forced a small smile. "Ah — the soul-binding. Yes. Alex, you forgot I placed that precaution. I suppose I am the only one who can remove it."
"If what you tell me won't harm the Majesty or the royal family, I will keep it secret," Elden said flatly.
Richerd considered, then nodded. He told them everything: finding the boy in Indica, the strange blue fire that clung to him, the healers who failed, the Ashwini twins who had mended him, and the oath of silence he'd woven. Elden listened without interruption. When the story ended, he exhaled.
"The child has suffered," Elden said. "I'll make sure he's kept safe. As for a companion — leave that to me. I know someone who fits the role."
While they spoke in the comfortable lethargy of the merchant's study, the city's underworld was folding a different plan.
A man wrapped in a black cloak moved through alleys whose names the respectable forgot. The hood hid half his face; a deep scar carved the visible skin. He walked like a knife — minimal movement, purposeful. His boots made no more sound than the breath of a sleeping dog.
He reached the tavern where Drex Malcor held court. The place stank of damp wood and spilled wine, and the people within clustered around greedy lights.
The stranger pushed through the tavern doors.
The air inside was thick — a mixture of sweat, smoke, and cheap ale. All eyes turned toward him for a heartbeat, then back to their cups. The man's boots struck the floor like the toll of a slow bell. He found a table in the center and sat without a word.
A waiter, too young and too bold, came forward wiping his hands on a dirty rag.
"What'll it be, pal?" he asked.
The man lifted his head slowly, revealing only half his face — the other half carved with a jagged scar that ran from temple to jaw. His eyes, dark and depthless, settled on the boy.
He didn't speak at first. Then, in a voice that seemed to scrape across the wood, he said,
"Mind your words."
The waiter hesitated. "I—I just asked—"
The man moved. In the space between heartbeats, his hand seized the boy by the throat and slammed him onto the table. Tankards rattled, beer spilled.
"Before you open your mouth," the man said, pressing down harder, "remember that some tongues don't grow back."
The room went dead silent.
He let go. The waiter staggered back, coughing blood, but somehow found his voice again.
"What… what would you like to have, sir?"
The man leaned back in his chair. "Now you sound better," he said coldly. "I want Drex."
The waiter nodded frantically and ran upstairs.
The tavern's regulars sat frozen, pretending to drink, none daring to meet the man's gaze. The air didn't move until the footsteps of the waiter faded above. He ran. The tavern hummed, everyone pretending to be busy with their cups.
Upstairs, Drex lounged amid food and smoke, his laugh a throat-rough sound. He was grand in all the ways the slums taught men to be: heavy, loud, and certain.
"What brings a stranger to ruin my night?" Drex asked, tossing a crust to a dog.
The man did not hesitate. "I want you and your men to neutralize the guards and butlers around Richerd's trading company."
Drex's eyebrows shot up. "And the pay?"
The man produced a leather pouch and dropped it on the table. It landed with a metallic clink. Coins glittered — not like the smooth, boring coin of the mint, but darker, stamped with strange marks. The tavern grew still.
Drex laughed, a slow, hungry sound. "Three hundred men? You want a small army."
"Three hundred," the man said. "On Sunday night. Make the guards blind and quiet. No killing unless necessary. A cargo must pass." He tapped the pouch. "Three hundred bars. Enough to buy roofs for every man you own."
Drex ran a hand over his jaw. "And your name?"
The stranger rose. For an instant the hood fell back and a crescent-shaped burn on his wrist flashed in the light. He gave no name. "Names are for those who earn them," he said. "Be clean until Sunday. I want you sharp."
Then the tavern filled with smoke, thick and bitter. When it cleared, the man was gone as if swallowed by the dark.
Drex stared a beat, then laughed, loud and fierce. "Now that's a job worth waking up for."
They thought it was calm. They were wrong. The calm was only the skin over a wound — and the knife had already found it.