The silence in the room was a third presence, thick and heavy between King Theron and the Duke who took a seat watching him pace clockwise.
"You see a weapon," Theron finally bit out, stopping to face Viktor. "A new toy for you to test against the dark. Is that it?"
"I see a resource you are letting the Temple's fear turn to rot in a tower," Viktor countered, his voice flat. "Their 'cleansing' would break him. I am proposing we use him."
"Use him?" Theron's laugh was a short, harsh sound. "The same way one 'uses' a lit torch in a powder keg? He is not just strong, Viktor. What he did in that courtyard was not strength. It was an abomination."
"And it was effective," Viktor shot back, not yielding an inch. "Lance was always a small fry to me. But once he used Specura and got serious, he would be hassle. And that 'abomination' effortlessly left a wound on him that you yourself called precise. We are facing something new, Sire. We cannot fight it with old rules."
He stood up and took a step forward, his gaze intense. "The Temple screams 'possession' because it is a word they understand. It is a box they can lock him in. I am not so blind. I was Awakened at 100. A respectable score for a soldier, nothing more. I fought, I bled, I pushed. I carved my way to 700. What if the boy is not possessed? What if he is simply… evolving? Awakening in a way we have not seen? He has your strong blood."
Theron's pacing stilled. The idea, heretical and dangerous, hung in the air. He turned it over in his mind, examining it not as a father, but as a king. A weapon of that magnitude, born of his own bloodline… The strategic advantage was incalculable. The risk, catastrophic.
"It is different," the King murmured, more to himself than to Viktor. "The energy… the feel of it was alien. Ancient." He looked up, his eyes sharp. "But the possibility you suggest… if it were true, even in part, it would be an advantage our enemies could not anticipate."
"Send him with me to the Mournwood," Viktor pressed, sensing the shift. "Let me take his measure outside these walls, away from the Temple's weeping and your court's whispers. Let me see if this 'evolution' can be directed. If it can be controlled."
Theron's gaze was a physical weight. "And if you are wrong, Viktor? If it is a demon, and you unleash it in the wild?"
"Then I would take full responsibility," the Duke replied, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You have my word."
The King's silence was a heavier judgment than any shout. He walked to his desk, his movements precise. "You will have your asset. But understand this: if that power is unleashed and you cannot control the consequences, the price will be extracted from your holdings, your title, and if necessary, your life. The leash you hold is tied around your own neck. Do we have an understanding?"
A slow, grim smile touched Viktor's lips. "Crystal clear, Your Majesty."
───────────────────────────────
The heavy bolt on his cell door shot back with a sound like a breaking bone. Alexander looked up from the cot where he sat, back against the cold stone, as the door swung open to reveal not Cornelius, but Hale.
The man was still chained, but he stood with an air of casual ownership, as if he were a landlord inspecting a new property. The two Rangers with him remained in the corridor.
"Prince," Hale said, his voice a familiar, sardonic melody in the gloom. "I'd say 'fancy meeting you in person,' but the venue is getting a bit stale, don't you think?"
Alexander remained still. "Are they moving you?"
"Me? No, no. I'm just the conversational appetizer. The main course is coming for you." Hale took a single step inside, his chains clinking. "They're sending a party into Mournwood. And you, my demon-scented friend, might get invited."
A cold knot tightened in Alexander's stomach. The Mournwood.
"Finally. A worthy testing ground."
Alexander ignored Crimson and focused on Hale. "Why are you telling me this?"
Hale shrugged, the gesture elegant despite his bindings. "Call it professional courtesy. The woods… they have a way of reflecting what you bring into them. Bring your fear, and you'll find nightmares. Bring your anger," his eyes flickered with knowing light, "and you'll find a fire that can consume you. I'd wish you luck, but I think you're going to make your own."
Before Alexander could decipher that, a new shadow filled the doorway. Duke Viktor.
"The chat is over," Viktor said, his voice flat. He didn't even look at Hale. His eyes were locked on Alexander. "On your feet, Prince. You have a briefing."
Hale gave a mock bow, his chains rattling. "And so my work here is done. Do try to bring back something interesting." He was led away, his humming resuming as he disappeared down the corridor.
Viktor didn't move, his immense frame blocking the light. "Well?"
There was no choice. Alexander stood, his mind racing. This was not a request. He followed Viktor out of the North Tower, through corridors that felt both familiar and alien. As the sun hit him, he couldn't help but squint. It was sharp contrast to his cell.
They did not go to the throne room or the war council chamber, but to a small, utilitarian office lined with maps and filled with Rangers. General Brant and Nikolai were already there, along with a grim-faced Captain Elliot.
The briefing was brutally efficient. Brant stabbed a thick finger at a map of the Mournwood.
"...patrols have confirmed mutated beast activity is concentrated here, in the heart of the Whispering Deeps. Your objective is scouting in force. Identify the source of the corruption. Engage only if necessary. Prince Nikolai has operational command."
Nikolai stood straighter, his jaw set. Alexander said nothing.
"The rules of engagement are simple," Elliot added, his gaze cold. "You follow orders. Any deviation will be treated as desertion. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly," Alexander said, his voice quiet.
"Then you leave in one hour," Brant concluded. "Duke Viktor will oversee the… specialized asset."
As they filed out, Viktor placed a hand on Alexander's arm, stopping him. Nikolai shot them a look but continued after Elliot. When they were alone, Viktor let go.
"You have questions?"
"It's a simple enough mission," Alexander deflected.
"It's a suicide mission for anyone else," Viktor corrected bluntly. "They are sending you to see what you do. So do something worth watching." He turned and led Alexander not back to the tower, but to the royal armory.
The armorer, a grizzled old man, stood at attention as Viktor approached. Without a word, the Duke took a long, cloth-wrapped bundle from the man and held it out to Alexander.
Confused, Alexander took it. The weight was familiar. He unfolded the cloth.
It was his sword. The blade that had been transformed into a matte, darkness-drinking black by Crimson's touch.
He looked at Viktor, stunned.
"A prince should not go to war unarmed," Viktor said, his expression unreadable. "I've been keeping it for you."
The implication was staggering. Viktor had not only retrieved it, he had kept its transformed state a secret. He knew. He understood, at least in part, what Alexander now was.
Alexander's fingers curled around the leather-wrapped hilt. The metal seemed to hum in recognition, a low thrum of power that resonated with the constant presence in his soul. It felt like coming home.
"Thank you," he said, the words inadequate.
Viktor's only response was a grunt. "Don't thank me. Just make sure it's the other side that needs healing when we return."
He turned and walked away, leaving Alexander standing in the armory, the weight of the black sword a solid, terrifying comfort in his hands.
An hour later, he stood in the main courtyard as the Rangers assembled. Twenty of the kingdom's best, checking gear with a quiet, professional intensity. Nikolai was at their head, a picture of royal command. Viktor stood slightly apart, a mountain of silent menace.
Alexander took his place at the rear of the column, the black sword sheathed at his hip. It felt different now. Not just a tool, but a statement.
He looked up at the North Tower, at the single narrow slit of his cell window. For a moment, he thought he saw a pale face looking down. Then it was gone.
The portcullis groaned as it began to rise, revealing the winding path that led into the deep, waiting green of the Mournwood. The air that swept in was cold and carried the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves.
Nikolai gave the signal. The Rangers began to move, their footsteps a steady, grim rhythm on the cobblestones.
As Alexander passed under the shadow of the gate, leaving the palace behind, he felt the familiar weight of the sword at his side and the humming presence in his soul. The Soul Ledger was a silent warning, a reminder of the terrible cost of power. But it also posed a tantalizing question: just how much stronger had he become?
Let the hunt begin.