Silas did not look up when the door opened.
The room was warded—layered seals humming softly through stone and brass—so the footstep he heard was not sound, but displacement. Air disturbed where it should not have been.
He finished washing his hands first.
Clear water ran red, then clean again. He dried them carefully, methodically, before turning.
The shadow stood where the torchlight refused to settle.
Veil layered upon veil. No face. No sigil. No presence that could be anchored or named.
Silas inclined his head. Not in respect.
In acknowledgment.
"It was not supposed to fail," he said calmly. "The timetable was conservative."
The shadow said nothing.
Silas moved to the table and picked up the empty vial, holding it between thumb and forefinger. Clear glass. Perfectly clean. Unremarkable to anyone without training.
"To be precise," he continued, "it was not poison."
A pause.
"It was closure."
The vial caught the light as he turned it.
"The compound suppresses mana conduction at the source," Silas explained. "Not crudely. No shock, no decay. It convinces the body that effort is wasteful. That resistance is inefficient."
He set the vial down.
"It does three things, categorically.
"First: it dulls perception. Not unconsciousness—never that. Awareness must remain. Hope must fray slowly."
The shadow shifted, almost imperceptibly.
"Second: it introduces a false equilibrium. The body adapts to dying. Pain becomes manageable. Decline becomes routine. The subject stops fighting."
Silas's mouth twitched.
"And third," he said quietly, "it creates dependency. Removal accelerates collapse. Recovery becomes mathematically impossible without intervention far beyond mortal healing."
He folded his hands behind his back.
"The boy would not have survived the month. Transfer or no transfer. Estate or no estate."
The shadow spoke then.
A voice filtered through layers of distortion—genderless, distant, sharp.
"The mother believed otherwise."
Silas allowed himself a thin smile.
"She would," he said. "She always did mistake sacrifice for leverage."
He crossed the room, stopping beside a shelf lined with sealed ledgers.
"Even had she given her life," he continued, "it would have changed nothing. The compound does not respond to external mana. It was keyed to him. His spirit. His pattern."
A pause.
"She could have burned herself hollow trying."
The torchlight flickered.
"You calculated her response," the shadow said.
Silas nodded once.
"She would intervene. Late. Desperate. Emotional." He exhaled softly. "Predictable."
The shadow leaned forward slightly.
"And yet," it said, "your escort is dead."
Silas closed his eyes.
Just for a heartbeat.
When he opened them again, the calm was intact—but strained, like glass under pressure.
"The retrieval agents exceeded expectations," he admitted. "That female commander—she was not supposed to be present."
"Your certainty wavered," the shadow observed.
Silas's fingers curled once, then relaxed.
"No," he said. "My margin did."
Silence stretched.
"Borders are closing," the shadow said. "Her people are moving."
Silas turned back to the table, gaze lingering on the empty vial.
"It doesn't matter," he said, though the words were quieter now. "Even awake, even protected, the boy is already dying."
The shadow's voice dropped.
"Unless he is not."
Silas stilled.
For the first time that night, doubt threaded through him—thin, unwelcome.
"…Impossible," he said.
The shadow did not answer.
It withdrew instead, presence unraveling into nothing.
Silas stood alone.
The torchlight dimmed.
He reached for the vial again—then stopped, hand hovering.
For the first time in five years, he wondered—
Not whether Elayas D. Krause would die.
But whether he had misjudged what the boy was.