Leopold screamed.
Not words. Not curses. Just sound—raw and animal and breaking. He'd pushed himself up somehow, swaying on his knees, and the noise tearing from his throat was nothing human. Just agony and rage given voice.
Viktor's head snapped around.
His brother knelt in the mud ten feet away. What remained of his arms hung in tatters from his shoulders—shredded meat and exposed bone and blood, so much blood. Leopold's eyes were wide and unseeing. His mouth opened and the screaming just kept coming.
"Leopold—" Viktor stumbled forward. His legs barely worked. "I didn't—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
Leopold's eyes found him.
For one second, Viktor saw recognition. Saw his brother understand who'd done this to him.
Then Leopold's eyes rolled back. He pitched forward into the mud and didn't move again.
Viktor dropped to his knees beside him. His hands hovered, useless. He didn't know what to do. Couldn't fix this. Couldn't undo it. Leopold's chest still rose and fell—shallow, rattling breaths—but the blood kept spreading and Viktor didn't know how to make it stop.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please don't die. Please—"
Voices.
Distant. Coming closer.
Viktor's head lifted.
Four men emerged from the tree line, moving slow and careful. The assassins who'd fled. They looked worse than before—one limping badly, another with his arm pressed tight against his ribs. Blood on all of them. Exhausted. Wary.
They'd heard the explosion. And now they were coming back. Contract discipline—you don't leave a job half-finished. You confirm every kill. You eliminate every witness. You don't go home until the work is done, or you don't go home at all.
One of them—the grey-bearded leader—stopped at the crater's edge. Stared down at what remained of their companion. His jaw tightened.
"He did it," the man said quietly. "Detonated his Source."
Another assassin—younger, with blood crusted down the side of his face—surveyed the carnage. The dead handlers. The destroyed bodies. "Did his job. Took them all with him."
"Then we're clear." A third man, stockier, favoring his left leg. "We confirm, we leave, we—"
"Wait." The grey-beard's eyes had found something. He pointed.
Viktor.
Kneeling beside Leopold. Small. Covered in mud and blood. Alive.
The four assassins went still.
"There was a boy," the grey-beard said slowly. "Behind the log. During the first fight. I saw him."
The younger one's hand went to his sword. "A witness."
"Contract specified no witnesses. None."
They started forward. Not rushing—just walking with grim purpose. Professional. Tired. But thorough.
Viktor tried to stand. His legs gave out. He collapsed back to his knees, hands braced in the mud. His Source was nearly empty—not completely drained, but burned down to dregs. Just enough left to keep his heart beating. Nothing more.
The grey-bearded assassin reached him first. Looked down at him for a long moment.
"I'm sorry, boy." His voice was almost gentle. "You shouldn't have been here. You shouldn't have seen any of this."
He drew his foot back and kicked Viktor in the side of the head.
The world exploded white. Viktor's skull rang like a bell. He hit the ground hard, tasting copper and mud and the sharp chemical taste of his own fear. His vision sparked. Everything spun.
Then stopped.
He blinked. The world came back into focus—blurred, doubled, but there. He was still breathing. Still conscious.
That kick should have killed him.
The assassins had stopped moving. They stood in a loose circle around him, staring.
Viktor pushed himself up on shaking arms. Blood ran from his nose, from a split in his cheek. But as he moved, he felt it—the cut closing. The bone in his cheek realigning. Flesh knitting back together.
His Source. Burning through the last dregs, the emergency reserves his body kept for survival. Automatic. Reflexive. Not conscious healing—just his body refusing to die.
The younger assassin crouched down. Grabbed Viktor's face, turned it toward the grey light. His eyes widened.
"His wounds are closing."
"What?"
"Look at him. The cut on his face—it was deep. Now it's—" The man's fingers traced Viktor's cheek. The skin was smooth. Whole. Only blood remained. "It's gone."
The grey-beard knelt. His hand found Viktor's jaw, tilted his head back. Studied him with the careful attention of someone examining something impossible.
"Self-healing," he breathed. "I've heard stories. Legends. But I thought—" He looked at the others. "This is real. He's actually doing it."
The stocky one shook his head. "That's not possible. Healing magic needs a healer. You can't just—"
"Look at him."
They all stared. Viktor's split lip was sealing shut. The bruising around his eye was fading from purple to yellow to nothing. In the space of seconds, visible injuries were disappearing.
"The ice," the grey-beard said quietly. He looked at the melted wall, at the crater, at the devastation around them. "He did it. All of it. The wall. The explosion." His eyes came back to Viktor. "This is what they're afraid of."
"What do we do?" The younger one's voice had gone uncertain. "We were told to eliminate threats. If he can do this—"
"We kill him." The grey-beard's voice was firm. Sad, but firm. "Same as before. Just more thorough." He stood. "We need to be sure he's dead. Which means we need to understand what we're dealing with."
His boot slammed into Viktor's ribs.
Bone cracked. Viktor's scream was soundless—no air left in his lungs. He curled around the pain, gasping.
The assassins watched.
Counted silently.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Viktor's breathing eased. The ribs shifted. Realigned. Healed.
"Incredible," the stocky one whispered. "How is that possible?"
"Doesn't matter." The grey-beard crouched again. His voice was almost apologetic. "I'm sorry, boy. We need to know your limits. Need to know what will actually put you down." He looked at the others. "Methodical. We test, we learn, then we finish it properly."
They descended on him.
Not frenzied. Not cruel. Clinical. Methodical. Testing.
A punch to his jaw—bone breaking, teeth loosening. They stepped back. Watched it heal. Timed it.
"Thirty seconds for facial bones."
A kick to his kidney. Viktor vomited blood. They waited. Watched the internal damage repair itself.
"Organs take longer. Forty-five seconds. Maybe a minute."
Viktor's world became a cycle of breaking and healing. He couldn't fight back. Couldn't defend himself. His body was empty—no magic left to strike with, no strength to push them away, nothing. Just lay there and took it.
He went out once. Darkness swallowing him. Then pain dragged him back. The assassins had rolled him onto his back, checking his pulse, making sure he was still alive before continuing.
"—never seen anything like it—"
"—Source must be in overdrive—"
"—when does it stop—"
Viktor's eyes cracked open. Everything was blurred. Red. He saw shapes above him. Heard voices, muffled and distant.
"Enough." The grey-beard's voice. "We have what we need. Skull trauma is the answer—his healing is fast but not instant. We crush his head, he dies before he can repair it."
"Shame." The younger one. "Wish we could have studied this longer."
"We don't have time. Grab something heavy."
Footsteps. Movement. One of them bent down—the stocky one. Grabbed a rock from near the crater's edge. Larger than a fist. Jagged.
He stood over Viktor. Looked down at him with something like pity.
"I really am sorry, boy." His voice was quiet. Genuine. "This is a bad way to go. But we don't have a choice. Orders are orders."
He raised the rock.
Hesitated for just a moment.
"Make it quick," the grey-beard called from behind him. "We need to move."
The stocky assassin nodded. His jaw tightened. He raised the rock higher, two-handed, positioning it directly above Viktor's head.
Viktor stared up at it. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except wait for it to fall.
In the tree line, barely visible in the grey dawn, something shifted.
Golden hair caught the light.
The rock started its descent—
Blood sprayed.
The assassin's hand—still gripping the rock—separated from his wrist. Clean. Surgical. The hand and rock tumbled away. The man's eyes went wide. His mouth opened to scream.
His head left his shoulders before sound came out.
The body stood for half a second, then crumpled.
Viktor's vision swam. Couldn't track what was happening. Just saw movement—fast, precise, golden hair catching morning light like a flag.
Charles.
The younger assassin spun, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. "Contact! We have—"
Charles was already there.
His blade—thin, elegant, perfectly maintained—came up in a rising arc. Caught the assassin's sword mid-draw. The steel rang. Charles's wrist turned, redirecting the force, and his blade slid along the other's edge, found the guard, slipped past.
The tip punched through the man's throat.
Charles pulled back, let the body drop, was already pivoting toward the grey-beard.
The old assassin had his sword out, guard high, backing away. "Wait—we can—"
Charles closed the distance in three strides. His blade came down high. The grey-beard blocked—proper form, solid technique. Steel screeched.
Charles didn't try to overpower the block. Just redirected, flowed around it. His left hand shot out, grabbed the man's sword-wrist, pulled. Off-balance. His blade came across low—horizontal cut through the abdomen.
The grey-beard gasped. His guard dropped. His sword clattered to the mud.
Charles's blade reversed. Came up through the jaw and into the brain. Clean. Efficient. Final.
Three down.
The fourth assassin—the one with the limp—had been furthest away. He turned and ran.
Made it ten steps before Charles caught him.
Not running. Walking fast. Internalist enhancement making each stride cover twice the distance it should. His boots barely made sound on the wet ground.
The assassin heard him coming. Tried to spin. Tried to bring his blade around.
Too slow.
Charles's sword took him through the spine. Angled upward. Severed the cord, pierced the lung, found the heart. The man jerked once. Went limp. Charles pulled the blade free and let the body fall.
Four dead in less than thirty seconds.
Charles stood among the bodies, breathing steady, not even winded. His sword dripped red. His formal blacks were splattered with blood that looked black in the grey dawn light. His golden hair was immaculate. His emerald eyes were cold as winter glass.
He looked at Viktor. Held his gaze for a long moment.
"Another second and you'd be dead." His voice was calm. Matter-of-fact. "I miscalculated how long they'd take."
Two figures materialized from the tree line behind him.
Silent. Moving like shadows given form. They wore black cloaks that draped to their boots. Every inch of them above the waist was wrapped in bandage cloth—arms, hands, even their faces completely covered. Only their eyes were visible through the wrappings. Blank. Emotionless.
Charles's Wraithward. His personal unit. Soldiers bound to him specifically, not to the empire. The ones who answered to no one else.
They didn't acknowledge Viktor. Didn't look at the carnage. Just moved past him with mechanical precision and knelt beside Leopold.
Their hands worked—quick, professional. Light flickered between their wrapped fingers. Healing magic. Stopping the bleeding. Stabilizing what was left of his arms. They didn't speak. Didn't react. Just worked with the efficiency of surgeons in a battlefield tent.
Charles walked over to Viktor.
Stood there. Looking down.
Viktor tried to speak. His mouth wouldn't form words. Just stared up at his brother through the blood and mud and exhaustion.
"I was watching," Charles said. His voice was calm. Even. "From the valley onward. I positioned myself to intervene if it became necessary." He paused. "I wanted to see if you could adapt under pressure. When the assassins returned, I stayed back. Watched them test you. Learned what you're capable of."
Viktor's chest felt hollow.
Charles had been there. The whole time. While Viktor broke down. While he accidentally maimed Leopold. While the assassins beat him.
Just watching.
"Your healing is remarkable," Charles continued. "I've never seen anything like it. That information alone made the risk worthwhile."
He crouched down. Brought himself to Viktor's level.
"But what I saw was more troubling than valuable." His voice went colder. "You didn't fight back. Not once. Four wounded men—exhausted, injured, barely functional—and you didn't even try. You didn't swing at them. Didn't try to run. Didn't attempt anything."
Viktor's vision was fading. Going dark at the edges.
"I know you're ten years old." Charles's eyes bored into his. "I know you just maimed your brother. I know your Source was depleted. I understand the context." His hand reached down, gripped Viktor's chin, forced eye contact. "But you have no physical training. No combat instinct. No ability to function when your magic fails you. Do you understand what that means?"
Viktor couldn't respond.
"It means everything you are depends on one thing." Charles's voice was quiet. Final. "Your strength. Your defense. Your worth. All of it rests on your magic. When that's gone, you're completely helpless."
He leaned closer.
"Magic is your crutch."
Viktor's eyes closed.
The world went dark.