They brought Aurelian back to the cell at dawn—if dawn existed in a place that never saw the sky.
The door slammed shut with its usual metallic shriek, but the sound no longer made him flinch. He stood there for a heartbeat, breathing steadily, letting the echoes die before he turned.
His parents were already watching him.
Not with panic.
With calculation.
Lucien's eyes traced Aurelian's posture first—shoulders level, weight balanced, chin neither lifted nor lowered too far. Elenora's gaze followed, noting the absence of tremor, the controlled rhythm of his breathing, the way his hands rested open instead of clenched.
He had passed the test.
Not the cult's.
Theirs.
Elenora rose carefully and crossed the cell, her steps slow, deliberate. She stopped a hand's breadth away from him and searched his face.
"They believed it," she said softly.
Aurelian nodded once. "They wanted me to fail."
Lucien's mouth curved into a grim, approving line. "And you did. Perfectly."
Aurelian exhaled.
Only then did the tight coil in his chest loosen enough for exhaustion to seep in. His knees wobbled slightly, just enough that Elenora noticed. She reached out, steadying him, her touch light but sure.
"Sit," she murmured. "You did well. Now we work."
The work began immediately.
Not with comfort.
With strategy.
Lucien crouched in front of Aurelian, lowering himself to eye level. "From this moment on," he said quietly, "you are nothing."
Aurelian didn't react.
Lucien continued. "You are not clever. You are not special. You do not learn quickly. You do not resist pain well—you only endure it poorly."
Elenora knelt beside them. "You must make them bored," she added. "Bored people grow careless."
Aurelian tilted his head. "How?"
Lucien tapped two fingers against the stone between them. "By failing safely."
He explained it the way he explained sword forms—precise, methodical, ruthless.
"When they ask you questions," Lucien said, "you hesitate. You answer slowly. You misunderstand simple things. But you never contradict yourself."
Elenora nodded. "Confusion invites scrutiny. Simplicity invites dismissal."
Aurelian absorbed every word.
"When they hurt you," Lucien continued, voice steady despite the rage burning behind his eyes, "you react like a normal child. Cry sometimes. Shake. Beg occasionally—but never too much. Too much draws attention."
Elenora's hands curled into fists. "It's a lie," she said softly. "But it's a shield."
Aurelian looked down at his scarred hands.
"I can do that," he said.
Lucien studied him closely. "Can you pretend to be weaker than you are?"
Aurelian thought of the Still Blade.
Of water settling.
Of the room in his mind.
"Yes," he said. "I can be nothing."
Lucien closed his eyes briefly.
Then nodded.
They practiced.
Over and over.
Lucien asked him questions the way interrogators did—sudden, sharp, sometimes nonsensical.
"What did you see during the test?"
Aurelian hesitated. Scratched his arm. Looked away.
"Lights," he said vaguely. "It hurt."
Lucien frowned. "What kind of lights?"
Aurelian shrugged. "I don't know. White."
Lucien's gaze sharpened. "Too vague. Add detail that means nothing."
Aurelian tried again. "White and… buzzing. Made my head feel funny."
Lucien nodded. "Better."
Elenora took over, her voice gentler but no less exacting.
"If they ask about your parents," she said, "you don't defend us. You don't deny caring—but you don't show loyalty."
Aurelian's jaw tightened.
Elenora touched his cheek softly. "Not because you don't love us. Because love is leverage."
He swallowed.
"I understand."
Lucien added, "If they threaten us, you freeze for a heartbeat. Then comply—but poorly. Just enough to frustrate them."
Aurelian's eyes lifted. "And if they make me choose?"
Lucien's answer came without hesitation.
"You choose survival."
Elenora flinched—but nodded.
"Survival is not betrayal," she said quietly. "It's a promise."
Aurelian breathed in slowly.
Then nodded once.
Kael moved quietly through the compound like a man counting his steps toward execution.
Every adjustment he made was small enough to be overlooked, justified enough to pass inspection, and risky enough to shave years off his life if discovered.
He rerouted a supply request—nothing dramatic, just enough to create a delay. He altered a maintenance schedule, citing rune instability in a lower tunnel. He filed a report recommending reduced staffing in the research wing now that "Subject 47" had been deemed incompatible.
Subject 47.
The number burned.
But the word incompatible protected Aurelian better than any name ever could.
Kael watched from a distance as the cult's attention shifted—toward other experiments, other prospects. He saw the guards grow sloppy, their cruelty dulling into routine. He saw Voss lose interest, already chasing the next promising anomaly.
Neglect bloomed.
Opportunity followed.
The first real opening came a week later.
Kael arranged for a routine "obedience assessment"—the kind meant to reaffirm dominance rather than gather data. It was crude, ugly, and common.
And it gave him cover.
They took Aurelian again.
Not to the deep chamber.
To a smaller room closer to the cells.
His parents were brought too—chained, weak, placed where he could see them clearly.
This was no experiment.
This was a test of compliance.
Voss stood before him, arms folded, expression bored.
"Your cooperation has been… adequate," Voss said. "We'll ensure it remains so."
A guard stepped forward and struck Lucien across the face.
Elenora cried out.
Aurelian's heart slammed against his ribs.
The Still Blade wavered.
He saw red.
In. Hold. Out.
Voss watched him closely. "Kneel," he ordered. "And apologize. For causing trouble."
This was the choice.
Lucien's eyes met Aurelian's.
Not pleading.
Commanding.
Survive.
Aurelian's knees buckled.
He knelt.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice shaking just enough to be believable. "I didn't mean to cause trouble."
The guard raised his weapon again.
"Louder."
"I'm sorry," Aurelian repeated, louder now, tears stinging his eyes. "Please don't hurt them."
Voss smiled faintly.
"Good," he said. "See? He learns."
The guard struck Lucien once more—lighter this time.
Then stepped back.
Voss turned away, already bored.
"Return them."
As they dragged Aurelian out, Kael caught his eye from the corner of the room.
Just for a second.
He inclined his head—so slightly it could be mistaken for nothing.
Good.
Aurelian understood.
Back in the cell, the silence was thick.
Lucien's face was bruised. Elenora shook with delayed terror.
Aurelian stood in the center of the room, fists clenched, breathing hard.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I should have—"
Lucien cut him off.
"No."
He pushed himself upright with effort and crossed the cell, gripping Aurelian's shoulders with shaking hands.
"You did exactly what you were meant to do," Lucien said fiercely. "Exactly."
Elenora joined them, wrapping her arms around both of them despite the pain it caused her.
"You chose life," she whispered into Aurelian's hair. "That was the lesson."
Aurelian's control finally cracked.
He didn't sob.
But his body shook as something unknotted inside him—a pressure he hadn't realized he'd been holding since the chamber.
"I hate them," he whispered.
Lucien's voice was iron. "Good."
Elenora's was softer. "But don't let hatred steer. Let it wait."
Aurelian nodded against her shoulder.
That night, as they lay close together on the cold stone, Lucien spoke quietly.
"Your Still Blade held."
Aurelian stared at the ceiling. "It almost broke."
Lucien smiled faintly. "Then it didn't."
Elenora brushed her fingers through his hair. "You're healing," she said. "Not all at once. But enough."
Aurelian closed his eyes.
For the first time in years, sleep came without screaming him awake.
Elsewhere, Kael finalized the first real step of the plan.
A transfer order.
Not an escape.
Not yet.
Just a move—one that would place Aurelian closer to a maintenance corridor on a night when staffing was thin and oversight distracted.
It was dangerous.
It was fragile.
But it existed.
Kael stared at the parchment for a long time before sealing it.
"Hold on," he whispered to no one. "Just a little longer."
And far above them—beyond stone and runes and cult halls—the world continued turning, unaware that something long buried had learned how to be patient.