The walk to Midas’ place was longer than Anora remembered. Not because of distance, but because her thoughts were louder than usual.

  Two bags of groceries hung from her hands, their weight insignificant compared to the conversation she’d just had. The Badlands wind moved past her cloak as she followed the familiar path toward the structure at the edge of the village.

  It wasn’t really a house anymore.

  Not by any normal standard.

  What had once been a modest workshop had been expanded over time. Additional rooms built from reinforced scrap, outer walls extended, a fenced perimeter erected. Supply crated lined one side while tools hung neatly along another.

  It looked less like a home and more like a self-contained outpost.

  She reached the door and pushed it open. “I’m coming in,” she called out. She stepped inside and placed both grocery bags near the entrance. From deeper within the structure, Midas’ voice echoed back.

  “Do whatever you want. It’s practically your place.”

  Anora sighed softly, he’d been saying that for years. She moved further inside, passing through what used to be a single hall but had since branched into multiple rooms. quarters, sleeping quarters, workspaces…

  She stopped at one doorway and found him. Midas sat at a large wooden workbench scarred with years of use. Papers were spread across its surface in careful disorder. Tools rested nearby, but untouched.

  In his hands was a leather-bound book, the same one he had given Pheo now full of content. Beside it lay another notebook filled with his own handwriting, dense annotations covering page after page.

  He didn’t look up when she entered, he was too deep inside the text. Anora leaned against the doorframe. “...Does that book really have that much information in it?”

  Midas turned a page slowly. “It does.” His tone was thoughtful. Focused.

  “I’m fairly certain Pheo only read was publicly available in The Free City.” Anora stepped closer to the workbench. “You really think there’s more?”

  Midas finally glanced at her. “There is.” He tapped the leather cover lightly. “And not just more information.” He closed the book halfway, his eyes sharpening slightly. “You should try to find out where he came from before you found him.”

  Anora frowned. “We’ve been over this. He was eight,” she said. “Eight years old when I found him.” Her arms folded loosely. “What could he have possibly done between gaining consciousness and getting taken by Narfius?”

  Midas leaned back slightly in his chair. “I don’t know. But whatever he did…” he said slowly, “...was enough to pass what I know.”

  He looked down at the open pages again. “Just from this book alone, I’m standing on the edge of something new.” His fingers brushed the margins filled with symbols and coded notes. “Something unexplored in this world.”

  Anora studied him carefully. “You’re saying he knew things you didn’t?”

  “I’m saying,” Midas replied quietly, “that the knowledge written here doesn’t match the education an adult should have, much less a kid.” His gaze lifted back to hers. “And it certainly doesn’t match someone who was supposedly just surviving.”

  The light coming through the small windows had begun to dim. Sunset in The Badlands was never gentle. The sky didn’t fade, it burned out slowly, the gold bleeding into red before collapsing into cold blue.

  Anora glanced toward the window briefly.

  Almost evening.

  She mobbed without another word and began unpacking the groceries, placing vegetables, dried goods, and wrapped cuts of meat onto the makeshift kitchen table assembled from reinforced planks and scrap metal.

  Midas didn’t look up from his books.

  “You could just ask him,” Anora said casually, setting down a bundle of herbs. “Instead of dissecting that book like it’s going to confess.” Midas groaned. “I would,” he said, flipping a page. “If I knew where he was.”

  That made her pause.

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  He leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly. “As soon as he claimed his new weapon,” Midas said, “he told me he’d be isolating himself for a while.”

  Anora straightened. “Isolating?”

  “For training.”

  Midas closed the leather book halfway and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He said something vague. Something about learning in complete darkness. Silence.” He let out a short chuckle. “Training with nothing but himself.”

  Anora resumed unpacking, though slower now.

  Midas shook his head faintly. “I can’t help but wonder how many times he’s hit himself.”

  That earned a faint huff from her.

  “Flailing a weapon around in complete darkness,” Midas continued. “He’s probably full of bruises and cuts.”

  Anora placed the last item on the table and folded her arms. “I hope he is.” Her expression wasn’t amused. “This is the second time,” she said evenly, “since I came to this village that he’s made me wait.”

  The words carried more weight than irritation.

  “Worried?” Midas asked lightly.

  Anora didn’t answer immediately. The silence was enough.

  He leaned back again. “He’ll be fine.”

  Anora walked toward the doorway, glancing outside as the sky darkened further. “He better be.” She said as the knife struck the board in steady rhythm.

  Chop.

  Chop.

  Chop.

  The stove clicked once before catching flame, a low heat beginning to warm the small kitchen space. Oil hissed faintly as Anora set the pan down. For a while, only the sound of preparation filled the room.

  “Was it the right decision? To make that weapon for him,” she asked. The knife slowed slightly. “You knew how… unusual it was.”

  That made Midas glance sideways at her. “It’ll be fine,” he said simply.

  Anora slid the chopped vegetables into the pan. The sound of sizzling briefly filled the space. “That wasn’t reassuring.”

  Midas chuckled. “You’re thinking about it the wrong way.” He closed the notebook in front of him. “Pheo isn’t the type to design something that detailed without knowing how he intends to use it.”

  Anora stirred the pan slowly. “That doesn’t mean he won’t hurt himself figuring it out.”

  “He might,” Midas admitted before shrugging. “But he’s not reckless.”

  “He’s deliberate.”

  The firelight flickered faintly against the walls. “Pheo is a genius,” Midas added casually. “You know that. He’s more than capable of being independent.”

  She stopped stirring.

  “You’re trying to lead this somewhere,” she said quietly.

  Midas smiled faintly. “You’re not letting him join the new squadron.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Anora’s jaw tightened slightly. “I’m not.”

  Midas tilted his head. “You really think you can stop him?”

  “I can.”

  “He’ll find out eventually,” Midas replied calmly. “And if he wants to join, he’ll sneak his way in eventually.”

  Anora turned to look at him fully now. “He won’t.” Her voice carried steel. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  Midas raised an eyebrow. “That sounds possessive.”

  “It isn’t,” she shot back immediately. She turned back to the stove, though her grip on the wooden spoon tightened slightly. “I’m not keeping him close for myself.” She lowered the heat. “I’m making sure he doesn’t get used.”

  Midas laughed. Not mockingly, but genuinely amused. “Used?” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “By The Director?”

  Anora didn’t answer, she didn’t need to. Midas leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You really think Pheo would be the one getting used?”

  Anora frowned slightly. “What makes you so certain?”

  Midas’ smile widened faintly. “If anything,” he said, “it would be Pheo using The Director.”

  That made her pause. She turned slowly, “What makes you think so highly of him?”

  Midas held her gaze. “Because you don’t. You’re so focused on protecting him,” Midas continued calmly, “that you forget what he’s capable of.”

  Anora’s expression hardened slightly. “I know what he’s capable of.”

  “Do you?” Midas asked gently. He stood now, walking over to the table. “You see a kid who survived something terrible.” He picked up the leader-bound book. “I see someone who wrote this.”

  He tapped it lightly. “You see someone who needs shielding.” He placed the book down again. “I see someone who’s already calculating three steps ahead.” The fire crackled softly behind her.

  “You’re underestimating him,” Midas said quietly. “Not because he’s weak. But because you care.”

  The food finished cooking not long after. Anora plated it carefully, two bowls, evenly portioned. Steam rose in thin spirals as she carried them back toward the table where Midas sat waiting.

  He looked up, already reaching a hand out expectantly.

  The first bowl passed him.

  He blinked.

  The second followed.

  He blinked again.

  Then he watched, incredulous, as Anora sat down across him him and began eating. From the first bowl, then calmly pulled the second closer.

  Midas stared. “You’re joking.”

  She wasn’t.

  He watched her take another bite.

  “You made two.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you brought two.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are eating two.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned back in disbelief. “That’s petty.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Anora swallowed, not even looking at him. “It’s karma for calling me possessive.”

  Midas scoffed under his breath.

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  She didn’t deny it.

  Midas stood with a sigh and headed toward the kitchen. “I hope the karma tastes good,” he muttered. “It does,” she replied flatly. He shook his head, already rummaging for something else to eat.

  The room quieted again. Anora’s chewing slowed. The warmth of the meal sat heavy in her stomach, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Pheo’s goal.

  To find a way to dispel the curse.

  She lowered her gaze to the bowl. She knew that realistically, the new squadron would help him. It would give him access to different regions of the continent, places he’d have trouble reaching alone. Ancient ruins. Remote archives. Forgotten settlements. Information behind missions only operatives were cleared to undertake.

  Opportunities.

  While completing assignments, he could search. Investigate for clues, ask questions related to the curse. If there was a way to break the curse, being part of that unit would increase his chances.

  But the missions weren’t simple patrols. They would be dangerous, some near impossible. The Director wouldn’t assemble such a special squadron for anything less.

  Anora’s fingers tightened slightly around the spoon. She knew that, but also knew that if she hid it from Pheo, he would find out about it eventually from someone else.

  He would go anyway.

  And he would go without her knowledge.

  That would be worse.

  Her shoulders rose slightly with a slow breath. She decided to herself at that moment she would tell him, but not simply offer it. She would test him. If he wanted to become an operative, if he truly believed he was ready, then he would prove it.

  Not with confidence.

  Not with words.

  With results.

  In her mind, she clicked her tongue.

  The Director.

  She could almost picture his satisfied expression. She hated admitting it, but this time, she had lost to his schemes. He knew exactly what offering that squadron would do, exactly which string to pull.

  “Enjoy your little maneuver,” she murmured under her breath.

  From the kitchen, Midas called out. “Talking to yourself again?”

  She ignored him. “You won’t get him under your reigns,” she thought firmly. Pheo would join only if he was capable. And even then–

  He wouldn’t belong to The Director.

  He would be his own.

  No matter what squadron he stood in.

  The wind howled across The Badlands, dragging curtains of dust across the dunes as the sun dipped lower. A large bandit caravan, nearly two dozen riders, was racing against the fate that came to those who stay out in the open when night falls.

  Horses strained, sand spraying behind pounding hooves. Cloaks wrapped right around their faces. Eyes squinted against the rising grit, trying to find any place they would temporarily stay for the night.

  “There!” one rider pointed.

  The bandit leader raised a hand and angled his horse toward it. “Inside! Move!”

  The caravan split efficiently. Some of them circled the perimeter to ensure no ambush, others funneling toward the entrance. They didn’t all go in at once. Only enough to secure it.

  The rest of them remained near the mouth, tending horses and setting camp. Because in a desert like The Badlands, survival wasn’t about comfort. It was about shelter.

  Inside the cave, the temperature dropped instantly. While the outside had howling winds and rising spirals of sand, the inside was full of cool stone and silence. Roughly half of the bandits remained near the entrance, tying horses under overhangs and securing equipment.

  Wire traps were set along narrow choke points, thin enough to miss in low light. Tin scraps hung delicately for noise. Loose rocks balanced in unstable stacks. If anything moved where it shouldn’t, then they would know.

  But deeper inside the cave, seven bandits stepped forward with flashlights. Not because they were the only ones available, but because they were the core of this particular crew, the ones who always moved together.

  The main focus.

  Their beams cut across the cavern walls. It was larger than expected. Stone pillars, wide chambers, and multiple branching tunnels made the cave seem as if it was more of a structure built by someone.

  One of them whistled. “Hell, we could build rooms in here. Private space for once.”

  Another laughed. “Would be nice. Shame there’s an outpost of The Director’s men nearby. We’re lucky if we stay the night unnoticed.”

  A third kicked at a loose rock. “Still don’t get why we hide in scraps like this. Used to have better spots.”

  “Shut it,” the fourth muttered sharply. “You want the boss hearing that?”

  That ended it.

  From farther ahead, two beams waved. “Over here!” the fifth called. “Flat ground. Good chamber!”

  “Big enough for supplies,” the sixth added. “Defensible too.”

  The leader of the seven stepped forward, scanning the space with narrowed eyes. It was good, too good. He looked toward the deeper tunnel behind it. “We still send someone further in,” he said. “Just in case.”

  The mood shifted instantly.

  “Why?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s a cave in the middle of nowhere.”

  The leader crouched and pulled a pouch from his belt. “Chance decides.” He poured out several carved bone sticks into his palm. “Shortest mark goes.”

  They line dup reluctantly. One by one, they drew. When the last man opened his hand–

  Shortest.

  He stared at it. “You’re joking.”

  The others laughed.

  “Fair’s fair.”

  “Can’t argue with fate.”

  He frowned and held it next to another bandit’s stick.

  Something was off.

  The cut at the end of his was cleaner. Fresher, the color of the bone slightly lighter. The others had rounded, worn edges. His had sharp knife marks. He looked up slowly. “You shaved this.”

  The leader’s expression didn’t change. “You pulled it.”

  The others had already turned away. No one was backing him. He clenched his jaw. “...Fine.”

  Flashlight trembling slightly, he stepped toward the deeper tunnel. Behind him, the six resumed setting up the chamber. Laughing, talking, pretending they didn’t hear the shift in his breathing.

  The six remaining bandits shifted uneasily after their companion disappeared into the depths. One of them clicked his tongue. “Two of you,” he said, pointing toward the entrance.

  “Make a lit trail. Torches, lantern hooks, something. If things go bad, we don’t want to trip over our own feet trying to get out.” Two nodded and grabbed oil lanterns, beginning to mark the path back toward the cave mouth.

  The other four stayed behind in the larger chamber they’d chosen. Bedrolls were thrown down, supply crates stacked up. One of them sharpened his blade, another cleaned sand from his rifle’s chamber. A third fiddled with a deck of bent cards, the fourth leaned against a rock, arms folded, pretending not to listen to ever echo.

  Time stretched.

  Outside, the desert wind howled faintly through the cave’s entrance, but deeper in–

  It was too quiet.

  Then one of them paused. “...You feel that?”

  “Feel what?”

  “The breeze.”

  They all stilled, a faint draft brushed across their skin coming from the direction of the entrance. Night air, cooler than before.

  One frowned. “That’s odd. We haven’t heard from the two setting the lights.”

  “Or the idiot who went deeper.” Another added.

  Silence followed that.

  Weapons were picked up without being told.

  “Check it.”

  The four of them moved together toward the entrance path. Halfway down the tunnel, it happened. From the darkness to their left–

  A blade flashed.

  A sword drove cleanly through one bandit’s skull with a sickening crack, the tip bursting out the other side before he even had time to scream. Blood sprayed across the stone.

  He dropped instantly/

  “What the?!”

  Gunfire exploded in the narrow tunnel. One of them reacted fast, raising his rifle and firing blindly into the dark. The muzzle flash illuminated stone, shadows, nothing concrete.

  “I saw him!” another shouted, swinging his blade toward movement in the dark.

  “Don’t break formation!” someone barked.

  “It won’t matter!” the swordsman snapped, slashing again toward where he sword the figure had moved. His blade struck–

  Stone.

  The impact rang through the cave as he realized he had just swung at a natural pillar. Before he could recover–

  A blur from behind him.

  A short, sharp yelp.

  Then…

  Silence.

  The two remaining bandits froze. They could hear their own breathing. One of them swallowed hard. “...We’re not going to get through this with just the two of us.”

  The other didn’t respond. He grabbed his companion’s arm. “Run. Entrance. We regroup with the others. We’ll be safe once we reach the horses.” Without waiting for agreement, he sprinted.

  Boots slammed against stone.

  The second followed close behind. “I’ll stall it!” he shouted. “Just keep going!”

  He threw whatever he had behind them. Loose stones, a lantern, even a dagger, hoping the noise would slow the thing chasing them. “Show yourself!” one shouted, voice cracking. “Fight properly!”

  The only answer was the echo of their own panic.

  The cave mouth was just ahead now. Moonlight spilled across the ground outside.

  Freedom.

  “We’re gonna make it!” the front bandit cried in relief–

  A blade erupted from his back. Steel burst through his chest in a spray of blood. His body jerked violently before being yanked backward, dragging him back into the cave’s darkness, being reeled in by something unseen.

  His scream cut off instantly.

  The last bandit stumbled forward alone, bursting out of the cave and into the open desert night.

  “I NEED HELP–!”

  His words died in his throat.

  The caravan.

  The horses.

  The men who had stayed outside.

  All of them.

  Dead.

  Bodies lay scattered across the sand. Some of them had clean cuts across their throats, others had single, precise wounds through the chest. No struggle. No chaos. Just efficiency.

  The wind rolled gently over the dunes, brushing past corpses like nothing had happened.

  “What the hell…” he whispered.

  He took a step back before he felt it.

  Movement behind him.

  Instinct screamed, he dropped low–

  A sword sliced through the space where his head had been a split second earlier.

  He rolled away, scrambling to his feet as the blade shot past him before stopping midair.

  No.

  It hadn’t stopped.

  It was being pulled back.

  The sword snapped backward unnaturally, retracting into the darkness of the cave as if tied to an invisible cord. The bandit stared. A thin, rubber-like line flinted faintly in the moonlight for a brief second before vanishing into shadow.

  He swallowed.

  “You coward!” he shouted toward the cave. “You did this to them too, didn’t you?! Hiding in the dark!”

  For a moment, there was silence.

  Then, laughter.

  Soft.

  Young.

  Almost amused.

  It echoed from within the cave, sending ice through his spine.

  Fear rooted him in place until a figure stepped out into the moonlight. A teenager, fifteen at most. Ragged clothes, torn at the sleeves and edges, stained with dust and blood. Messy red hair fell over his sharp eyes that gleamed with something disturbingly calm.

  His frame wasn’t imposing.

  Lean.

  Compact.

  But the way he stood. Balanced. Unhurried. Predatory.

  A sword rested loosely in his hand, the strange elastic tether coiled around his wrist and disappearing into the weapon’s hilt.

  Pheo tilted his head slightly. “Make it worth my while,” he said casually before throwing his sword. The blade shot forward violently, the bandit barely twisting aside to avoid it as the wind of steel brushed past his cheek.

  He tracked it, too focused on the weapon–

  And didn’t notice Pheo sprinting straight at him. The sword snapped back along its tether toward its owner. The bandit reacted just in time, raising his blade to parry.

  Clang!

  Steel met steel.

  He pushed forward, attempting a counterstrike, but Pheo slipped to the side effortlessly. He moved like he’d rehearsed this a hundred times in silence. The bandit swung again in desperation.

  Missed.

  Pheo’s eyes didn’t change. The sword came down once more, the bandit prepared to parry–

  The impact this time was overwhelming.

  The force traveled through his arms and shattered his guard, knocking his blade aside completely.

  “What–?!”

  Before he could recover, Pheo stepped in. One clean thrust, the blade driven straight through his throat. The bandit’s hands trembled uselessly at the steel lodged inside him, his eyes widened in disbelief.

  Then dimmed.