Darok POV:

  I was relaxing at the lair, waiting for jobs to come in. Working for the Cult meant long hours spent lounging in the book café they used as a front. I was halfway through a treatise on anatomy and organ displacement in certain beastkin races when Adamias stumbled in—his royal ass trailing blood across the floor.

  The little prince didn’t say a word. He just disappeared into the back, wailing like a gutshot pup.

  An hour later, I had a job.

  First, secure the noble’s pouches. He’d left his belt in room 916 of the academy.Second, locate Lilith Makina and bring her back to the lair—unconscious.Third, eliminate a one-armed lunatic who was probably some low-level stage 1.

  Nothing a proper stage 2 couldn’t handle. Even less of a problem for me—level 95, a breath away from the next breakthrough.

  Still, caution is what’s kept me alive all these years.

  I checked the coating on my rapier, making sure the lethal poison was evenly applied, then grabbed three high-level stage 1 goons and made for the school.

  I quickly realized the stupid kid had gone straight to the lair, leaving a bloody trail even a blind rat could follow. A direct line from the academy to our front door. Brilliant. They’d have to send a rune mage to erase the tracks—otherwise, any half-competent seer could sniff out the location. Once I dropped the girl, I was switching lairs. If this place got burned, I wasn’t going down with it.

  Room 916 was a mess. No pouches. No pants. I scanned the room and then glanced at the fireplace.

  I activated my mana, pushing it through my eyes, casting a low-grade Seer’s Sight.

  Faint traces of scorched fabric shimmered in the flames—what was left of the pants. I focused. A ghostly image took shape: Adamias playing his sick little game before being interrupted. I couldn’t track the intruder—his presence was a blank spot, a void where energy should have flowed. That was a problem. No mana signature. No ripple. Nothing.

  Whoever he was, he moved like a shadow.

  My guess? One of the two had taken the belt. Probably the girl. I decided to track her down—if the one-armed freak was still with her, even better.

  However, something else caught my attention. Someone had been here—another presence, detached from the scene. A watcher. The energy never came close to Adamias, but it lingered, faint and deliberate. Quiet eyes in the dark. I couldn’t track the main target, but if he had friends, I could use them. People like him always made mistakes when others were at risk. If I had his allies, he was as good as toast.

  When I came out of the school, the tracks split. One veered west. The girl’s went just down the street.

  Perfect. No cross-city slog tonight.

  We reached the building and climbed to the fifth floor in near silence. I had the three goons stack up by the door while I stood fifteen yards back, rapier ready. Never go in first—that’s for idiots. Second’s worse. Third or fourth? Usually safest… unless it’s a mage with lightning. Then you’d best pray and stand clear.

  The lock clicked open with ease. First goon creaked the door, blade raised. They slipped inside, one after another.

  Then—BOOM.

  A thunderclap. Indoors.

  I flinched, heart punching my ribs. Magic trap? Lightning?

  I lunged forward, speeding in fast—fast enough most Stage Ones wouldn’t even see me. But what I saw inside made my blood run cold.

  Smoke. Misty and acrid. Blood sprayed across the walls in wide arcs. Limbs twitching. Heads—gone.

  All three goons lay dead. Not stabbed. Not burned. Just ripped apart with something explosive. Something loud and wrong.

  I’d seen enchanted explosions before—firebombs, shatter runes—but nothing like this.

  “What in the seven hells—”

  Then he came for me. One-armed freak, saber in hand, moving like he was born for war.

  We clashed. Steel sang. He wasn’t flinching—he wasn’t even surprised. He’d baited us.

  I struck with speed, grace, and poison-tipped precision. He gave ground, parried, circled, always drawing me deeper. Then—

  BOOM.

  BOOM.

  White-hot agony consumed my knees. I collapsed, howling. What spell was that?! What kind of witchery?!

  Then I saw her.

  The girl. Lilith. Standing calmly in the smoke, a strange metal staff still fuming in her hands. She wore some kind of ridiculous sleepwear, but her face—her face was all fury.

  She stepped forward, picked up one of my severed legs, and locked eyes with me.

  “You’re in for a long night, motherfucker.”

  Then she swung.

  The world turned red and painfull.

  Then nothing.

  When I woke up, I was tied to a chair. Both legs gone past the knees. They’d healed me just enough to keep the blood in, not enough to dull the pain. Every throb was a goddamn drumbeat in hell.

  In front of me sat the one-armed shithead, lounging in a chair like we were in some backwater tavern. He was smoking something—medical herbs rolled in thin paper—and he made a show of blowing the smoke into my face. It stung my eyes.

  “So, tell me, Sir Darok, Knight of the Cult,” he said with a smirk, “what exactly were you doing at my good friend’s place?”

  “None of your damn business, asshole.”

  He chuckled. “Tough guy, huh? Well, good news. There’s no bad cop in this room—just me. And I’ve had a long week.” He stretched, cracking his back. “But hey, I’m not a monster. Let’s start with a little kindness. How about I untie you? Don’t want you to feel threatened or anything, right?”

  “Yeah, how about you do that,” I said, flashing my teeth in what was supposed to be a grin. Idiot was making it easy.

  And then—unbelievably—he did it. The dumb bastard untied me.

  I lunged for his dagger—Or I tried to.

  My body didn’t move. Nothing below my neck responded. Like I was wearing my own corpse.

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  “What the fuck…?”

  “Yeah,” he said, leaning forward, tapping ash into a tin plate, “about that. I didn’t want you getting grabby. That’d be rude, right? So, I took precautions. Temporary, of course. Depending on how useful you make yourself, I might even let you live. Though let’s be honest—without legs, you’re kind of shit at your job now, aren’t you?”

  He smiled like we were sharing a joke.

  I stared into his eyes and realized this wasn’t going to be a quick death.

  A shiver ran down my spine as reality sank in.

  The hunter had become the prey.

  Worse—I could feel my body just fine. Every torn muscle. Every ragged nerve. I just couldn’t move. Which meant I’d feel everything he was going to do to me.

  “So,” he said, smiling like a devil in a dive bar, “how about we start with introductions? I’m Sam.”

  And then, calm as a surgeon, he slid the tip of his dagger under my fingernail. Slowly. Methodically.

  I screamed. “Fuck off! You won’t get shit from me!”

  Maybe—just maybe—if I dragged this out, the Cult’s handler would notice the op had gone to hell and trigger the failsafe. The kill spell. One quick burst of arcane fire and I'd be out of this nightmare. All I had to do was last 24 hours.

  Sam looked at me, eyes hollow but steady. “Now now, don’t lie,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Figured maybe your friends would show up. But no one came.” He gave me a mock frown. “Sucks not having real friends, huh?”

  I grinned through the pain, blood pooling at my feet. “Give it time,” I said, baring my teeth. “You’ll see.”

  I had to be close. I’d been out a few hours, maybe more. Add in the travel time, maybe I only had a couple hours left. Just a bit longer.

  But then—he said it.

  “You know,” Sam mused, “we’ve been waiting for a week. You’d think something would’ve happened by now, right? Hell, it didn’t take you long to get here. I figured 48 hours, tops. What a waste of an opportunity.”

  Wait.

  What?

  A week? That couldn’t be right. The failsafe was supposed to go off in 24 hours. Twenty-four.

  Panic clawed at my chest. Why hadn’t it worked? Why hadn’t they triggered it? I was supposed to explode, damn it. They were supposed to kill me before anyone got anything out of me.

  A cold dread slithered down my spine.

  They weren’t going to.

  They were going to let me bleed. The bastards had cut me loose.

  Sam tilted his head. “Well,” he said, “you don’t seem very cooperative right now. So I guess I’ll just put you back to sleep and check on you tomorrow.”

  His fist crashed into my face like a hammer.

  And then—

  Darkness.

  When I awoke, the scene was the same—except now Sam was wearing a long crimson padded gambeson and sipping on a steaming cup of coffee like we were about to discuss the weather.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said cheerily. “So, I figured since we did your nails yesterday, today we’d focus on hair care. Ever heard of waxing? No? Well, today’s your lucky day!”

  The next two hours were, without exaggeration, the most excruciating of my life.

  He started by shaving off my mane—my pride—with dull scissors, humming a song about a family of sharks. Then came the wax. Hot. Sticky. Relentless. He worked his way down from my head to my chest in strips, each rip a scream, all while singing that cursed song on repeat.

  By the time he started tugging at my pants, I broke.

  I spilled everything. Names, operations, safehouses. Who ran what. Where the gold moved. How the handlers worked. Even where the high priest’s mistress lived. It all came out in a desperate torrent.

  Then the room suddenly grew brighter.

  The door creaked open.

  Click. Clack.

  Metal-tipped heels and polished authority stepped into the room—a tall elf in Inquisitorial uniform, face like carved marble and eyes that burned.

  “Well, Mister Sam,” he said, glancing at the quivering mess that was me, “your methods are… unconventional. But I’ve never seen a Cult agent break this fast. Impressive work.”

  She stepped forward, offering her gloved hand.

  “I’d like to extend a formal offer. Once your academic studies are complete, I believe your talents would serve the Inquisition quite well. It’s rare to find a man who can neutralize a failsafe and dismantle a psyche in under twenty-four hours.”

  Sam took her hand and shook it warmly. “You know where to find me,” he said with a wink.

  “What—what is going on?!” I yelled, twitching in my chair. “You said I was going to explode!”

  “Oh no, my friend,” Sam said, turning toward me with that same lazy grin. “I just bamboozled the ever-loving hell out of you.”

  He sipped his coffee. “Not my first time wasting days—or weeks—breaking someone. But this time? I just made you believe it was hopeless. That's the trick. No Geneva Convention here, buddy. Just me and the theater.”

  Relief surged through me. So the spell—

  “Oh, and as a token of gratitude,” Sam added casually, “I removed that little dark bomb-thingy they stuck in your guts. Wouldn’t want the Inquisition to miss out on all the quality time they’ll be spending with you.”

  He winked again, raised his cup in salute, and walked out humming that shark song.

  And I—

  I screamed.

  cop in this room—just me. And I’ve had a long night.” He stretched, cracking his back. “But hey, I’m not a monster. Let’s start with a little kindness. How about I untie you? Don’t want you to feel threatened or anything, right?”

  “Yeah, how about you do that,” I said, flashing my teeth in what was supposed to be a grin. Idiot was making it easy.

  And then—unbelievably—he did it. The dumb bastard untied me.

  I lunged for his dagger—Or I tried to.

  My body didn’t move. Nothing below my neck responded. Like I was wearing my own corpse.

  “What the fuck…?”

  “Yeah,” he said, leaning forward, tapping ash into a tin plate, “about that. I didn’t want you getting grabby. That’d be rude, right? So, I took precautions. Temporary, of course. Depending on how useful you make yourself, I might even let you live. Though let’s be honest—without legs, you’re kind of shit at your job now, aren’t you?”

  He smiled like we were sharing a joke.

  I stared into his eyes and realized this wasn’t going to be a quick death.

  A shiver ran down my spine as reality sank in.

  The hunter had become the prey.

  Worse—I could feel my body just fine. Every torn muscle. Every ragged nerve. I just couldn’t move. Which meant I’d feel everything he was going to do to me.

  “So,” he said, smiling like a devil in a dive bar, “how about we start with introductions? I’m Sam.”

  And then, calm as a surgeon, he slid the tip of his dagger under my fingernail. Slowly. Methodically.

  I screamed. “Fuck off! You won’t get shit from me!”

  Maybe—just maybe—if I dragged this out, the Cult’s handler would notice the op had gone to hell and trigger the failsafe. The kill spell. One quick burst of arcane fire and I'd be out of this nightmare. All I had to do was last 24 hours.

  Sam looked at me, eyes hollow but steady. “Now now, don’t lie,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Figured maybe your friends would show up. But no one came.” He gave me a mock frown. “Sucks not having real friends, huh?”

  I grinned through the pain.

  “Give it time,” I said, baring my teeth. “You’ll see.”

  I had to be close. I’d been out a few hours, maybe more. Add in the travel time, maybe I only had a couple hours left. Just a bit longer.

  But then—he said it.

  “You know,” Sam mused, “we’ve been waiting for a week. You’d think something would’ve happened by now, right? Hell, it didn’t take you long to get here. I figured 48 hours, tops. What a waste of an opportunity.”

  Wait.

  What?

  A week? That couldn’t be right. The failsafe was supposed to go off in 24 hours. Twenty-four.

  Panic clawed at my chest. Why hadn’t it worked? Why hadn’t they triggered it? I was supposed to explode, damn it. They were supposed to kill me before anyone got anything out of me.

  A cold dread slithered down my spine.

  They weren’t going to.

  They were going to let me bleed. The bastards had cut me loose or believed me dead.

  Sam tilted his head. “Well,” he said, “you don’t seem very cooperative right now. So I guess I’ll just put you back to sleep and check on you tomorrow.”

  His fist crashed into my face like a hammer.

  And then—

  Darkness.

  When I awoke, the scene was the same—except now Sam was wearing a long padded gambeson and sipping on a steaming cup of coffee like we were about to discuss the weather.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said cheerily. “So, I figured since we did your nails yesterday, today we’d focus on hair care. Ever heard of waxing? No? Well, today’s your lucky day!”

  The next two hours were, without exaggeration, the most excruciating of my life.

  He started by shaving off my mane—my pride—with dull scissors, humming a children’s song about a family of sharks. Then came the wax. Hot. Sticky. Relentless. He worked his way down my chest in strips, each rip a scream, all while singing that cursed song on repeat.

  By the time he started tugging at my pants, I broke.

  I spilled everything. Names, operations, safehouses. Who ran what. Where the gold moved. How the handlers worked. Even where the high priest’s mistress lived. It all came out in a desperate torrent.

  Then the room suddenly grew brighter.

  The door creaked open.

  Click. Clack.

  Metal-tipped heels and polished authority stepped into the room—a tall elf in Inquisitorial uniform, face like carved marble and eyes that burned.

  “Well, Mister Sam,” she said, glancing at the quivering mess that was me, “your methods are… unconventional. But I’ve never seen a Cult agent break this fast. Impressive work.”

  She stepped forward, offering her gloved hand.

  “I’d like to extend a formal offer. Once your academic studies are complete, I believe your talents would serve the Inquisition quite well. It’s rare to find a man who can neutralize a failsafe and dismantle a psyche in under twenty-four hours.”

  Sam took her hand and shook it warmly. “You know where to find me,” he said with a wink.

  “What—what is going on?!” I yelled, twitching in my chair. “I'm still going to explode?!”

  “Oh no, my friend,” Sam said, turning toward me with that same lazy grin. “I just bamboozled the ever-loving hell out of you.”

  He sipped his coffee. “Not my first time wasting days—or weeks—breaking someone. But this time? I just made you believe it was hopeless. That's the trick. No Geneva Convention here, buddy. Just me and the theater.”

  Relief surged through me. So the spell—

  “Oh, and as a token of gratitude,” Sam added casually, “I removed that little dark bomb-thingy they stuck in your guts. Wouldn’t want the Inquisition to miss out on all the quality time they’ll be spending with you.”

  He winked again, raised his cup in salute,“See I didn't kill you. I held my word” , and walked out humming that shark song.

  And I—

  I screamed.