Ears still ringing from the massive doors clanging shut behind him, Silas was guided deep into the Garrison Mordant. Beyond the doors lay a dark tunnel, the archway above supporting the rampart. Light at the other end revealed a large open space. Silas was pushed across the expansive courtyard, his boots slipping in the fine dust. The area was enormous—so wide the battlements blurred in the distance.

  To his right, a group of soldiers were engaged in a mock battle. A brawny man postured before them, barking orders that echoed against the stone walls. Silas watched their skirmish, rapt with fascination. Never before had he seen people move with such power. At Coldspire, the Arbiters fought like dancers—lithe and agile. Their movements were graceful—beautiful, even. In contrast, these soldiers were avatars of violence. They all wielded blades: swords, knives, daggers, and others Silas couldn't name. Each swing or throw was precise and measured, slicing through target dummies with devastating force. After observing for a while, Silas turned away, his emotions torn between reverence and disgust. The dummies were shaped like Unspoken.

  The man in white directed Ilyra and Silas toward the keep. He didn't speak. Silently, he moved with uncanny swiftness, a fog of dust kicked up in his wake. Silas shivered. The man was unnerving—an apparition guiding the boy to his haunting grounds.

  When they passed the mock battle, the soldiers stopped what they were doing and, all at once, bowed in Imperial salute.

  "Good morning, General Curne," they intoned, their voices one unified note.

  Ilyra nodded approvingly, her chin high. "Carry on."

  At her permission, they continued where they left off as if they had never been interrupted.

  The keep was of the same dark stone as the battlements. Its large doors were already open, beckoning them inside. Silas's eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimness after spending time in the bright courtyard.

  He was led down dark, murky corridors modestly lit by wall-mounted lanterns. To Silas's surprise, they were not starbloom lanterns—they were real fire. No wonder it's so dark and suffocating, he thought, looking up at an archway obscured in shadow. Why don't they use starbloom sconces?

  The torches fluttered when Silas walked by, his motion disturbing the flames. The heat kissed his skin, pleasantly warm. Starbloom oil doesn't provide heat. Perhaps that's why they use real fire.

  A tendril of smoke slapped his face. His eyes teared, irritated by the particulates. Maybe the cold would be better, he thought, trying to rub his eyes against his shoulders.

  The corridors bustled with activity. Both soldiers and logisters—or perhaps they were physicks?—passed by. Unexpectedly, they interacted with each other. They chatted in shrouded corners, exchanged notes, and congregated in meeting rooms. The juxtaposition between the heavily armored, weapon-brandishing soldiers and the erudite, willowy white coats felt wrong to Silas. It was unnatural—a blending of two worlds never meant to meet.

  Dr. Veyl didn't exaggerate. This truly is a facility where war and logics shake hands.

  Rounding a corner, Silas winced, harsh light stabbing his eyes. He turned around, then spun to face forward. It was as if two separate compounds had been melded together seamlessly.

  "No dawdling, wretch," Ilyra spat, pulling hard on Silas's chains.

  He scrambled to keep up, watching the dark stone abruptly change to white, sterile tile. Here, a haze of blindingly bright starbloom lights burned from the ceiling, illuminating the tiled floor. Soldiers became less and less frequent. Physicks and logisters were in their natural element—their white coats camouflage against the white walls, white floor, and white lights. Silas's heels clicked with each step, his chains rattling in the still air.

  Silas risked a backward glance. Where had the Archarbiter and Dr. Veyl gone? They must have fallen behind somewhere along the way. It made Silas nervous that he didn't know where they were. He worried they were lurking somewhere nearby, observing his every movement. Disquiet quickened his pace, hastening until he nearly overtook Ilyra.

  The air was heavy with the smell of disinfectants and alchemical residue. The potent stench stung the back of his throat, a bitter taste on his tongue. Glancing beyond open doorways, Silas rushed past examination rooms, operating theaters, and tidy laboratories. Foreboding settled in his chest. Surely all of these facilities couldn't be for him alone? Shuddering, he forced his eyes forward, trying to ignore his surroundings.

  Finally, they came to a stop before an unremarkable metal door. The white-clad man removed a keyring from his belt and fitted a simple key into the lock. Ilyra procured a key of her own and—without a word—spun Silas around with such force he nearly toppled over. He struggled, fearing the worst, but she merely unlocked his manacles.

  Silas was too stunned to react. Before he could collect his thoughts, Ilyra wedged open the door and pushed him inside. He whirled around; the door slammed in his face. There was a grating sound, followed by a decisive click. He was locked in.

  Engulfed in total darkness, Silas blindly stumbled around, numb hands feeling the walls for a starbloom lantern. His fingers bumped into a protrusion. Winding the lever gradually bathed the room in a gentle glow. Silas turned and scanned the room while he massaged his raw, bruised wrists.

  Flush against the right wall was a thin mattress atop a simple metal bedframe. The bed was the only furniture except a hole in the floor that Silas assumed was meant to be a toilet. Beside the pit was a washbasin. Silas cranked the spigot. It offered him a meager trickle of water that tasted like dirty coins. At least I can relieve myself on my own. Silas's cheeks heated, recalling his recent humiliation.

  Silas sat at the edge of the bed, frowning at its firmness. His futon atop the cold, moist floor of Coldspire provided more comfort. Flopping onto his side, Silas curled into a ball, tucking his chin into his chest.

  What happens now?

  Dr. Veyl said Silas was to be an experiment. On the other hand, Sorne promised he would be honed into a weapon that would spell the end of the Unspoken. The Garrison Mordant—a facility where military might and scholarly study stood on equal footing—sounded like the ideal location for such dual purpose. This fortress couldn't have been built solely for him, right? Such a massive structure would have taken syzygies to build, and it had barely been weeks since Silas had met the Archarbiter. What was the Garrison Mordant originally designed for? The soldiers and scholars here now—were they all involved in the current project? Or were they working on something else entirely?

  These musings distracted Silas for some time. Minutes or hours drifted by in inert silence. Silas didn't move—he remained curled on his bed, his thoughts whirring. Was Vera okay? How were her injuries? Was she healing? Dr. Veyl said she still suffered from alchemical poisoning. Would she have permanent infirmity from her wounds? What happened to Oscar? To Halven Quirin? Did Pa still—

  Something shifted outside Silas's cell. There were bootsteps, voices. Then, a jingle of keys. He heard that grating sound again, and the lock clicked open. Silas bolted upright, his heart hammering. He grabbed his pillow—even thinner than the mattress—and held it to his chest like a shield.

  Dr. Veyl's head peeked inside. His eyes darted about the room. When they landed on Silas, the physick smiled—bright and cheery. The boy scowled into his pillow and looked away.

  "You're settling in. Good, good." Dr. Veyl whispered to someone hidden beyond the doorway and stepped inside. He came to stand before Silas's bed, the smile never leaving his face.

  "Come with me, Silas," he said, offering a hand.

  Silas slapped it away and inched backwards until the wall impeded his progress.

  Dr. Veyl's face softened. With a crack of his knees and a groan of pain, the physick crouched. Level with Silas's face, he said, "Be a good lad and come with me. Otherwise, my friends waiting outside will force you. I don't want to put you through something so harrowing."

  But you've no qualms about studying me like a lab rat? Silas fumed, glaring at the floor. But he'd rather walk out with his dignity intact than be bound again in chains. Silas sighed, uncurled, and stood.

  "Atta boy," Dr. Veyl said and—with great effort and a concerning amount of crepitous—straightened.

  Silas bristled when the physick pressed a palm to his back and led him toward the door. Dr. Veyl frowned at the boy's reaction, hand dropping to his side.

  Five armed Guards waited in the hallway. Silas met their hard, severe stares and meekly dropped his eyes to the ground. They said nothing, but Silas knew that if he acted out of turn, they would cut him down without hesitation.

  Dr. Veyl was babbling again. He kept his hands to himself, but gesticulated wildly while he ran his mouth. Silas followed at his heels, the soldiers never straying far behind.

  They meandered down endless white tunnels, turning left and right seemingly at random. After several minutes of this, Silas was convinced Dr. Veyl was lost. Still chattering, Dr. Veyl halted in front of an open door and held out an arm, welcoming Silas inside. He steeled himself and crossed the threshold.

  It was a simple medical examination room. A cot sat in the center of the small space, lined with a thin, crinkly sheet. Resting on the cot was a bundle of cloth. It looked like the gowns Sanctorium patients wore. In front of a series of cabinets was a round, wheeled stool. Dr. Strath had one of those, Silas remembered.

  Dr. Veyl was beseeching the Guards, trying to swat them away with his notepad.

  "I assure you, good people, I will be fine alone." The physick gulped when a Guard's hand shot out and snatched away his notepad. He cleared his throat and said, "The boy will not hurt me. There's no reason for you to linger here."

  Silas curled his lip contemptuously. What makes you so certain of that?

  The Guardsman still holding the physick's notepad jutted his chin. "We follow General Curne's orders, not yours, physick. She told us not to let the vermin out of our sight, so we will not."

  Dr. Veyl paused, thinking. An idea struck him, and he perked up, grinning. "What if just one of you stayed. Would that be sufficient?"

  The Guardsman holding his notepad regarded him slowly. Dr. Veyl opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the Guardsman swiveled to address his comrades. They conversed in hushed tones, their words lost under the fizzy gurgle of overhead starbloom lights.

  "Fine," the Guardsman said, returning the physick's notepad. To Silas, he added, "The others shall remain outside. At the first sign of trouble, they will act. You understand, don't you, boy?"

  Silas only glared.

  "Perfect. Let us begin." Dr. Veyl shut the door with a flourish, the hem of his white coat fluttering. "Lad, could you put that gown on for me?" he asked, nodding at the cot.

  The boy faced the cot, then regarded the physick with a dubious expression. What did he expect him to do, strip right then and there?

  Dr. Veyl's lips pursed into a tight "o." Hurriedly, he said, "We'll turn to face the walls. That way you'll have some privacy, yes?" His smile challenged the Guardsman to disagree.

  The Guardsman grumbled something but obeyed, turning on his heel. Once the physick was also facing the opposite direction, Silas begrudgingly removed his articles, shivering when the air caressed his bare skin. The gown offered little protection from the chill. The back was open, tied together with nothing more than two flimsy strings. Finished, he perched on the edge of the cot, his feet dangling over the side.

  Dr. Veyl turned at the sound of the cot's springs squealing. "Your socks too, lad," he said, his tone apologetic.

  With a frustrated grunt, Silas peeled off his socks and threw them to the floor. The Guardsman observed him closely, his hand poised over a scabbard on his hip. What did he think Silas was going to do, throttle the physick with a pair of socks?

  "I will examine you now." Dr. Veyl seated himself on the stool and wheeled over to the cabinets. He procured a strange black tube and strung it about his neck.

  Other items were removed and placed beside Silas on the cot: a flat wooden stick, a small triangular hammer, and a device with a thick glass viewing orb above a stout metal handle. Silas eyed them warily and scooted away. The physick put the ends of the black tube into his ears and reached for the boy.

  Silas jerked away from the touch, eyes wide. He had little experience with physicks besides the Foundry School's Dr. Strath. The school's physick never implemented the devices Dr. Veyl was using. Silas was afraid of them—their purpose unclear.

  "What's the matter, lad?" asked Dr. Veyl, frowning. "Have you never seen a stethoscope before?"

  Silas shook his head, a defensive hand raised before the flat, circular nub at the end of the—what had the physick called it? A stethoscope?

  "Hmmm." Dr. Veyl quickly wrote something down. Placing the flat nub against his chest, he explained, "When this is pressed to a surface, sound is amplified. It allows the wearer to auscultate—er—hear the patient's heartbeat and respiration clearly." He took the ends out of his ears and handed the stethoscope to Silas. "Would you like to try it for yourself?"

  Hesitantly, Silas took it, his fingers pinching the rigid rubber. Dr. Veyl showed him how to put the stethoscope into his ears, "The earpieces face toward the patient!" and pressed the nub to his chest. Silas gasped, almost dropping the stethoscope in surprise. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, sang his heart—its voice boosted by the stethoscope. He nearly smiled, excited to experience something new.

  The examination flowed smoothly after that. Dr. Veyl explained what each instrument was for, and demonstrated on himself before examining Silas. The boy jumped in surprise when his knee kicked outward of its own volition after being struck with the small triangular hammer. He gagged when his tongue was depressed with the wooden stick. The physick told him to say "aaah," but he did not. The glass device ballooned Dr. Veyl's eyeball, which Silas found amusing. The physick stuck it down the boy's ears, which tickled and made his neck feel itchy.

  "The physical's almost done. For this last part, I need you to lie on your back." Dr. Veyl wheeled over to the cabinets and returned the devices to their places. When he swiveled back around, he wore gloves on his hands. "There's nothing to fear," he said quickly in response to Silas's nervous expression. "I'll just be palpating your abdomen. It won't hurt."

  He was right—it didn't. But it did tickle. Silas swallowed down the laughter that tried bubbling up his throat. Dr. Veyl paused when his fingers ran over the scar Silas had above his right hip.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "May I see?" he asked. "Actually, disregard that." He offered Silas his notepad and stylus. "Can you tell me where and when you got such a nasty cut?"

  Silas took the notepad and skimmed the most recent entries. Unable to make sense of the physick's medical jargon and shorthand, he flipped to a new page and began writing.

  "When I was eight, I came down with appendicitis. Pa refused to take either one of us to the Sanctorium, no matter the illness or injury. He tried waiting it out to see if the infection would clear on its own. But when my appendix ruptured, he knew something had to be done or I'd die.

  "Still, he didn't take me to the Sanctorium. Instead, he brought this back-alley physick into our home to have a look at me. He performed surgery on me in the kitchen. It wasn't an especially hygienic enterprise, and he did a hasty job of it. But in the end, I survived, so I suppose he must have had some skill. But he left me with this scar."

  Silas handed the notepad back. The Guardsman—standing so still in the corner Silas had nearly forgotten him—came behind the physick to read over his shoulder. Silas fiddled with the material of his gown.

  Why are they so interested in this?

  "Elias Harrow was certainly… careful," Dr. Veyl said with a heavy tone. "It makes sense why I could find no Records on you."

  Dr. Veyl slid to the counter and spent several long minutes frantically scribbling down notes. Silas stared at the wall, tracing imperfections in the plaster with his eyes. Finished with his notation, the physick swiveled around and studied Silas, his eyes raking over the boy's form. Silas squirmed, feeling violated.

  "One last thing before you go," he said, standing from his stool. "I apologize in advance, I imagine this is a rather… trying topic for you. But if you're willing, I'd like you to try to speak."

  Silas gaped, dumbfounded.

  "I know, I know," Dr. Veyl said, his palms raised appeasingly. "I'm curious about—I mean… I may be able to better understand what impedes your speech if I see you try for myself. Dr. Harrow's logs hypothesize your brain's language centers may have been damaged early in your development. I would like to test this hypothesis to know for certain."

  Silas's skin crawled. How quickly he had gone from patient to specimen. Silas sagged forward glumly, remembering his purpose here. He glanced at the Guardsman from the corner of his eye, calculating his odds if he tried to flee.

  "Please, lad," Dr. Veyl begged, stepping closer. "How about your name? Give it a go. Try to say it."

  Silas shook his head and leapt off the cot. The Guardsman lunged. Before Silas could react, his neck was crushed in the Guardsman's elbow, sinewy muscle constricting his throat. Silas thrashed, his vision pulsing.

  The door burst open. The remaining Guards flooded inside, weapons aimed at Silas. He stopped struggling, hands falling to his sides in defeat. The physick scurried backward, his mouth falling open.

  "Stop! Stop!" Dr. Veyl pleaded. "Let him go, you brutes. Everything's alright. He was just getting up to stretch his legs."

  "I don't think so," the Guardsman said, but his grip slackened enough for Silas to suck in air.

  On the verge of tears, Silas moved his lips, trying to replicate how it felt in his dream when he talked. Silas, he mouthed, trying to shape the name with his tongue. Dr. Veyl noticed what he was doing and froze, watching.

  "Sssssss," Silas said, air hissing through his teeth.

  Dr. Veyl nodded, eager. "Go on," he said. "You're doing great."

  The Guardsman released Silas, muttering obscenities under his breath. The boy stumbled forward, concentrating on his feet.

  "Saaaaaa," he said, frustration mounting. Why was this so hard? Everyone else did it effortlessly. His throat could make sound. His lips could shape words. But synchronizing the two to speak? It was impossible. Whenever he tried, the best he could manage was an unintelligible babble.

  "AAAAAH!" Silas stomped his bare foot. His ears burned with shame.

  Infants are better at this than me, he thought, mortified.

  Hot irritation kindled between his eyes. He seethed, rage seeping out of him, permeating the air. The Guards' grips tightened on their weapons, eyeing each other with malevolence. Sweat beaded on Dr. Veyl's brow. His nervous eyes darted between Silas and the Guards.

  "Lad, whatever you're doing, please sto—"

  The physick's gaze hardened, dazed yet defiant. He brandished his stylus like a blade and took a tremulous step toward the Guards.

  Silas hardly noticed. Anger consumed him—a smoldering fire of wrath and exasperation. He stood in the center of the fray, oblivious to the thickening tension. Dr. Veyl inched closer and closer, the nib of his stylus glistening, its sharp point approaching a Guardman's neck.

  Silas heard a sharp metallic sound, like a sword being pulled from its scabbard. Faster than he could think, a blade soared through the air and embedded in the wall above the cot. Silas blinked, roused from his fugue. His cheek felt hot. He wiped it with the back of his hand. It came away smeared with blood.

  A collective sigh rushed through the room. The Guards relaxed, shaking their heads. Dr. Veyl sagged into his stool, studying Silas with a mixture of awe and terror.

  Silas's sluggish mind failed to comprehend what had happened. He was still staring at the embedded blade when someone yanked his hair, tilted his head, and pressed a blade to his throat.

  "Have you forgotten, wretch?" Ilyra murmured into his ear. "Then, allow me to remind you: for this little display, you owe me a finger."

  In a breath, she resheathed her blade, released Silas's hair, and grabbed his right hand. Ilyra used her thumb to wrench Silas's index finger backward. The joint dislocated with a piercing crack.

  Silas screamed.

  He dropped to his knees, hand cradled to his chest. His finger was bent at a right angle. Immediate numbness gave way to burning agony.

  "Wha—" Dr. Veyl stopped, cut off by his own shock.

  Ilyra plucked her blade from the wall. She crouched, watching Silas writhe with stone cold eyes. She pressed her blade under his chin and forced his eyes to meet hers.

  "That was your second warning," she said, unblinking. "For your next transgression, you lose that finger, do you understand?"

  Silas nodded jerkily between sobs. He didn't know what he had done wrong, but his hand hurt too much to protest.

  "You poor thing," Ilyra said flatly, her gaze drifting down to his rapidly swelling digit. "You're right handed, aren't you? Looks like you won't be writing for a while." She stood, slipped her blade into a sheath, and exited the room.

  Dr. Veyl stared dumbly after her. Silas's wails snapped him back to awareness.

  "Out!" he shouted, shooing away the Guards. "Leave."

  "But—"

  "Out." Dr. Veyl glared at the Guardsman who had spoken up. "You don't all need to be in here while I treat his injury."

  An uncomfortable pause. One Guardsman shuffled out. Then another, followed by the rest. The last one to leave lingered in the doorway, turning to address the physick.

  "The door remains open," he said and disappeared out of sight.

  Dr. Veyl exhaled through pursed lips. He hastily rummaged around in the cabinets, mumbling to himself when items fell out, scattering onto the countertop. Silas's sobs quieted. His shoulders trembled, jittery energy coursing through his veins. He couldn't stop looking at his finger. It throbbed in time with his racing heart, the skin mottling reddish-purple.

  "I'll be right back," Dr. Veyl said and hastened out the door.

  A Guardsman peeked his head in, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Silas shrugged. The Guardsman shrugged back and ducked his head out before Dr. Veyl slammed into it when he flew back into the room. The physick was carrying a tall drinking glass and a towel draped over a block of ice.

  "Here, lad." Dr. Veyl offered Silas the glass.

  Silas grimaced at the translucent, dust-colored liquid.

  "It'll help with the pain and swelling." Gently, he coaxed the glass into Silas's good hand. "Trust me, you're going to need it before I set the finger."

  Silas shot the physick a worried glance.

  "I'm sorry, I really am," Dr. Veyl said, smiling weakly. "But it has to be done. Go on, drink up. Oh! Before you do, hop up onto the cot."

  Silas climbed onto the firm mattress. He then braced himself, held his breath, and chugged the liquid down. To his surprise, it wasn't that bad. He expected it to taste like Powder of Neuroleptic—shockingly bitter. But there was hardly any taste at all. If Silas had to describe it, he'd say it was vaguely reminiscent of chalk. Dr. Veyl took the empty glass and told Silas to rest his finger on the ice block. After a while, his finger blessedly went numb. Whatever was in the glass helped too.

  Warmth bloomed in Silas's belly. The sensation soaked through his limbs. It was like being hugged by a warm, fluffy weighted blanket. Silas slumped against the wall. Head tilted back, he stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes.

  Dr. Veyl chuckled. "The analgesic's kicked in, I see." He pushed his stool to the cot and sat. "Let me see it now."

  The physick set aside the ice block and rested Silas's hand in his lap. The boy kept staring at the ceiling. He giggled to himself, tossing his head left and right. When he moved, after-images followed stationary objects. For some reason, he found that funny.

  "Here we go." Dr. Veyl told Silas to take a deep breath. When the boy complied, he grabbed his finger and yanked.

  Silas inhaled sharply and kicked Dr. Veyl in the shin, a strangled cry catching in his throat. The physick winced but didn't move, the boy's finger still firmly held between his own. Silas relaxed, his limbs going slack. Already, it felt better.

  "Now, I'm going to splint it." The physick rested the injured finger on a thin piece of metal, securing it in place with stretchy white tape. He then taped Silas's middle finger to its splinted neighbor. Finally, a supple wrap was wound around Silas's wrist, securing the fingers in place.

  Silas tried to move his hand, but the wrap was unexpectedly stiff. His finger no longer hurt. He offered the physick a lopsided grin and waved, showing off the bandages.

  Dr. Veyl chewed the inside of his cheek. "That settles that… But General Curne wasn't jesting, was she?" Writing frantically, he asked, "You aren't even aware of what you did to set her off, are you, child?"

  Silas snickered, his gaze back on the ceiling.

  Dr. Veyl sighed. "Silas, you need to be careful. It seems that when your emotions are heightened, you unconsciously project them onto other people. I felt it. The Guards felt it. I… I have never felt such anger and resentment. I wanted to stab my stylus into the first person I saw, see their humors spill onto the floor."

  The physick held his writing implement in a white-knuckled grip.

  Silas's eyes dragged away from the ceiling. Slowly, he regarded the physick. Part of him knew Dr. Veyl was saying something important, but the fog muddying his thoughts found humor in inappropriate places.

  Silas tittered. What a silly little man, he thought, laughing harder the longer he looked at Dr. Veyl.

  "Perhaps we should resume this conversation when you're right of mind," the physick whispered, hanging his head.

  The apparition-man burst through the door, startling Dr. Veyl. Silas cackled, near hysterical. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

  The physick is afraid of ghosts!

  "D-Dr. Korrel. What brings you here?"

  The apparition—Dr. Korrel—regarded the physick with disinterest. His attention fixed on Silas, and he said, "I've come to explain to the subject the nature of our research, and his role in it."

  Silas's chortles died down. He looked at Dr. Korrel through his lashes, trying to focus.

  "I-It's not a good time," Dr. Veyl stammered. "General Curne… I mean, he hurt his finger, you see. I gave him a desolamine draft, so he's a bit—"

  "I don't care," Dr. Korrel interrupted. "That drug isn't an amnesiac. He'll hear what I have to say now."

  Dr. Korrel clasped his hands behind his back, peering at Silas over the bridge of his nose. That nose was so big—it looked like a beak! Silas swallowed down another round of laughter, trying to collect himself.

  "I am Soren Korrel, Imperial Logister. I head the Garrison Mordant's research division, and I, with the help of Lutheran” —the logister briefly scowled at the fidgeting physick— "am in charge of reanimating Project Concordia."

  That got Silas's attention. He sat tall, focus sharpening on the logister.

  Dr. Korrel arched his eyebrows. "This facility” —he spread his arms— “is now the center of Concordia's endeavors. However, you, child, are no longer a bridge between humanity and those fiends." He puckered his cheeks in distaste. "You are to be a weapon, heralding their ruin."

  I know that already. Silas folded his arms, unimpressed.

  "We have three primary goals." As the logister listed off each one, he raised a finger, counting up.

  "First, measure your psionic capabilities. Lutheran has already begun observations on that front."

  "Second, study your neuroanatomy and physiology. The Covenant of Fallen Stars was extremely vague, most likely deliberately, regarding this."

  "We need to understand the above objectives so that the third goal can be realized: replicating or augmenting your abilities."

  Silas shook his head. He didn't understand the last point.

  Dr. Korrel clicked his tongue impatiently. "A single weapon is not enough to defeat the enemy. We need to make more weapons just like you if we are to win this war. But if that is not possible” —his eyes narrowed— "then we will forge you until you are strong enough to fight on your own and win."

  Silas's head lolled to the side. I've already won against them. It's easy. His chuckles terminated when he remembered the dead Unspoken at 47 Brimthorne Lane—hemolymph oozing from orifices, carapace cracked open, lifeless compound eyes glued to the ceiling. His brows drew together, struggling to organize his thoughts.

  "Research was going to begin immediately," Dr. Korrel said, gazing at the empty glass resting on the countertop, "but circumstances necessitate a delay in schedule. I will come for you tomorrow at dawn. Have a good evening." He bowed, turned sharply, and strode from the room.

  Dr. Veyl massaged the back of his neck. Silas beamed, flashing his teeth. The physick huffed and shook his head.

  "You have an early day tomorrow," he said, stepping toward the cot. "Let's get you back to your room."

  Dr. Veyl hefted Silas to his feet. The boy swayed, the world spinning. Dr. Veyl draped his arm over Silas's shoulders, drawing him close. As they hobbled down the hallway, Silas kept veering away, pulling the physick toward the wall. After several redirections, Dr. Veyl switched sides, his body blocking Silas from the wall. The boy pouted. He liked the wall. It called to him. For whatever reason, he really wanted to touch it.

  The Guards followed, but kept their distance. Perhaps they doubted Silas was a threat in his current state. A few times, Silas glanced over his shoulder and waved, snickering all the while. Unamused, the Guards glared back, fingers curled around weapons. The gesture only added to Silas's merriment.

  Winded and perspiring, Dr. Veyl stopped in front of Silas's cell. A Guarsman unlocked the door and held it open. The physick nodded in thanks and dragged the boy inside by his good hand. The starbloom lamp was wound low. Silas was piloted to his firm bed.

  "Get some rest, child." Dr. Veyl turned to go. Halfway to the door he stopped, looking back. "I'll see you tomorrow." He bowed and exited, the door locking behind him.

  Silas sank onto the bed and lifted his feet into the air. What happened to my boots? he pondered, wiggling his bare toes. Eventually, he snuggled into the mattress, drew the thin sheet to his chin, and giggled himself to sleep.

  He woke to a dull ache in his finger. His right hand rested above his head, his cheek squished to his biceps. Silas stared at the bandages in confusion. When he tried to move his fingers, he yelped, sharp pain shooting into his wrist. That's when he remembered what Ilyra did, and what Dr. Veyl said afterward.

  Silas sprang to his feet. Agitated, he paced his small room, jumbled thoughts swirling around his mind.

  I need to learn how to control these abilities or Ilyra is going to chop off my hands!

  What time is it? Is it close to dawn?

  What experiments am I going to be subject to?

  Is Vera okay?

  Where are my clothes? Will I ever get them back?

  Can I really kill the Unspoken?

  Silas stopped pacing. He knew he physically could kill them, but would his morals let him? The Unspoken at 47 Brimthorne Lane had tried to kill him. Fighting back resulted in the Unspoken's demise, and Silas didn't mourn a creature that intended to destroy him. But what if he came face-to-face with Echo? Echo said it wanted to help him, and Silas was inclined to believe it. Could he kill Echo? Would he?

  Silas shook his head. No. I won't end innocent lives.

  Without warning, the door banged open. Silas squealed and backpedaled until his knees slammed into the bedframe. The Archarbiter stalked inside, unhurried. Face like stone, he closed the door quietly behind him.

  Silas's throat constricted, terror seizing him.

  The corners of Sorne's lips twitched. He approached, each slow step deafening in the oppressive silence. Silas scrambled away from the cot and fled into the corner. Back pressed against the wall, Silas trembled, unable to meet the Archarbiter's impassive scrutiny.

  Sorne folded at the waist and tilted his head, his gaze in line with Silas's. He smiled, lips taut and pale.

  "Good. Cower before me."

  Silas averted his gaze. The Archarbiter shifted, forcing Silas to look him in the eye.

  "Let me be clear: if you use your power on me again, Vera and Elias will die. Understood?"

  Silas nodded once, fear freezing his limbs.

  "Hmmm." Sorne straightened, raised his knee, and drove it into Silas's gut.

  Silas collapsed, air wheezing from his lungs. He folded in on himself, retching bile. The Archarbiter stood there for a moment, watching Silas squirm, expression alight with satisfaction. Then he left without a word, leaving Silas alone on the cold, hard ground.

  Silas stayed like that until dawn, unwilling to move. He stared at the door, horror mounting. When it next opened, would it be Dr. Veyl? Dr. Korrel? Or would he be visited by the Archarbiter once again for another round of punishment?

  Silas thought back to his earliest encounters with Malrick Sorne. Why did the Archarbiter know who he was before they met? How did he know about Project Concordia? What had Silas done to earn his hatred?

  Silas hugged his knees close, shivering from both cold and fear. I just want to go home.