We stand silent. Breathing, listening, waiting. Our bodies form a protective ring, backs pressed inward, the archivists tucked into the middle like precious cargo. Even their breathing is small and careful, as if the dark itself might leap out at any sound above a whisper.

  The vault around us is a vast, circular chamber. Forty feet in every direction, towering shelves radiate outward in spokes, creating lanes of shadowed corridors between them. Once, librarians or caretakers must have walked those aisles, tending to knowledge older than the Dominion. Now the space feels abandoned and hostile.

  Something moves in those lanes.

  Not loudly, just a pressure shift, a scrape of claw on stone, a flicker of motion at the edge of the glowstone’s reach. I catch glimpses: a silhouette between shelves, a flash of eyeshine, something thin slipping just out of view. Every time I focus, it disappears. Whatever hunts us is choosing not to strike immediately.

  That alone tells me it’s intelligent.

  It knows we outnumber it. It might even be testing us, testing our reactions, gauging threat, waiting for a weakness. Patience like that doesn’t belong to a mindless creature.

  I raise my hand in silent command.

  Narai pulls back without hesitation, guiding the archivists toward the entrance corridor, then turning to plant himself in the archway. He becomes a living barricade, three chitin-plated limbs braced, heat radiating from his body, crossed spears poised to impale anything foolish enough to attempt a rush.

  The archivists huddle behind him, whispering into the resonance in sharp, quick pulses.

  Rhel gestures to his shieldwardens, sweeping them toward the far edge of the shelving like a tide of armored obsidian. I motion for Seris, and together we break toward the opposite entrance to box the thing in.

  The glowstones crackle softly as our light shifts. I keep my Dominion Chime slung across my back—the last thing I want is to unleash its power in a room filled with delicate relics and ancient knowledge. This space is one of our greatest potential treasures. I won’t wreck it by accident.

  We round the corner—

  —and my breath halts for the barest second.

  Crouched low between two collapsed shelves is not a monster, but a child.

  A small, wounded, terrified child.

  He’s covered in thick fur matted with dried blood. Primitive cloth wraps hang from his torso and waist, torn and dirty. He balances on clawed hands like an animal ready to spring, one leg shaking as if it’s barely holding him upright. Pale eyes stare at me, wild and trapped, like I’m another predator in a nightmare he can’t wake from.

  The growl rumbling from him is meant to be threatening, but all I hear is fear.

  “Hold,” I murmur to Rhel across our link, raising one hand. “Stay where you are. Don’t crowd him.”

  Rhel relays the order immediately. His shieldwardens step back from the shadows, blades angled downward, making themselves nonthreatening.

  I lower myself slowly, letting my posture fold, letting the Chime rest across my spine with both palms visible.

  “We are not hostile,” I say, voice steady, quiet. “You’re hurt. Let us help you.”

  The creature—no, the boy—flinches at the sound. He clutches something tight to his chest with his left arm, half hiding it behind his body like a secret he can’t afford to lose.

  I lift my glowstone, brighten it, then gently place it on a nearby shelf. Its soft blue glow spills across the child’s features.

  Not human. Not fully human, at least.

  Wolf-like snout. Fur patterns reminiscent of lupine markings. Forward-facing eyes too aware for an animal, too sharp to be dismissed. A halfbreed? A beastkin? A were-line? Hard to know—Nod is full of species with ancient histories we barely understand.

  I sink all the way to the ground, sitting cross-legged. I glance at Seris and gesture subtly. She hesitates, her instincts are screaming, but she eventually lowers herself as well; armored legs folding with a quiet rasp.

  The boy watches every motion, claws scraping lightly against stone.

  “I’m Kyris.” I keep my tone warm, gentle but unwavering. “Do you have a name?”

  He stiffens. The growl fades.

  Recognition sparks. Small, brief, but unmistakable.

  “…Felkas,” he manages. His voice is gravel and exhaustion.

  “That’s a strong name,” I say. “Felkas. Now we’re not strangers.”

  His eyes flick to my satchel when I reach for it, and he snarls immediately, fur bristling like a cornered animal.

  “Easy,” I murmur. “Just food.”

  I move slowly, deliberately, letting him see every inch of the motion. I retrieve a wrapped ration of grilled meat—not warm, but edible—and place it on the stone between us, then slide it closer with one finger.

  “I figured you might be hungry.”

  He lunges forward, quick as a striking cat, snatches the food, and retreats several feet in an instant. Even wounded, he’s fast. Too fast for a normal child.

  As he devours the meat—ripping it apart in seconds—his eyes never leave mine. I hold the stare, calm, unthreatening. Let him measure me however he needs to.

  When he shifts his hand to tear away another bite, I notice the missing pinky on his right. Fresh injury. The fur around the wound is blackened and sticky. The angle of the break…Cut with a sharp instrument.

  My stomach knots.

  That wasn’t an accident.

  “Felkas,” I say gently. “You’re hurt. Badly. I can get you to safety. Food, warmth, medicine. If you follow me, we can take care of you.”

  I’ve already been feeding updates to Cast through the resonance. She knows we may be bringing someone back, likely a guest, maybe even a refugee.

  The boy stares long and hard at me, chewing slowly now as if weighing each word I say.

  “Not leaving,” he growls softly.

  I exhale in relief. “You understand me.”

  He nods once, then adds, voice trembling with memory:

  “Last king wasn’t so nice.”

  My blood chills.

  Last king?

  What king was he dealing with?

  My mind flashes to the map—north of Scott, deep in swamp territory, is that were-tribe we flagged months ago. A chieftain, maybe. A lesser king who rules by claw and fear. I’ve seen traces of their movements, but nothing to suggest cruelty like this.

  No. That’s a lie.

  I’ve seen plenty to suggest cruelty like this.

  Could his land be under attack by another nation? Maybe they have been taken captive and he escaped.

  “Alright,” I say softly. “You don’t have to go anywhere yet. Would it be alright if I brought someone here? A healer. Just one. To help with your injuries.”

  Felkas hesitates. His eyes flick to the floor, then slowly back to me. His shoulders sag, posture collapsing into exhaustion.

  He nods.

  His whole frame sinks to the ground like someone cut invisible strings holding him upright. His fur settles flat, revealing the shape beneath—the thinness, the bruises, the swollen joints, the scars of a life far too brutal for someone his age.

  He can’t be more than thirteen. Maybe fourteen.

  What nightmare chased him this far south?

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Rhel,” I say, rising to one knee, “finish sweeping the rooms. Seris and I stay with him. Nara, escort the archivists into the rotunda and get every corner lit. No shadows. I want this entire vault glowing.”

  Orders echo in the resonance like ripples, and my people act instantly.

  A soft nudge hits my back.

  I turn.

  Iskri—my sablehound—steps out from behind a pillar, his massive white mane glowing faintly in the blue light. He moves carefully, slow as snowfall, toward Felkas.

  The boy instinctively recoils a few inches—

  —but then Iskri lowers himself to the stone beside him, curling like a warm, living shelter. A deep purr vibrates through his chest, the sound soft, soothing, almost musical.

  Felkas freezes.

  Confusion paints his face. Fear. Then—slowly—just the faintest trace of peace.

  Tentatively, trembling, he reaches out and touches Iskri’s mane.

  When his fingers sink into the thick white fur, his entire body relaxes. He leans in. His eyes flutter. The tension leaves him all at once.

  Within moments, he is asleep.

  Just like that.

  Collapsing into Iskri’s side as if he’s found the first safe place in weeks.

  I blink at the scene, stunned.

  Of all the possible outcomes I expected in this vault, a wounded were-child cuddled up to a sablehound wasn’t one of them.

  Iskri watches me with one amber eye, humming softly, as if saying:

  This is handled. Leave him to me.

  I exhale, slow and relieved.

  Good. Let him sleep.

  And when the aid team arrives, maybe we’ll get answers.

  I have no idea how Iskri knew exactly what to do, but he did—instinct, empathy, some old echo of the drone he used to be… whatever guided him, it worked. Felkas sleeps against his flank now, swallowed by the soft white of that mane. The boy’s breaths finally sound like breaths and not frantic, hunted gasps. Every rise and fall is steadier than the last.

  I sit nearby, close enough to intervene if something changes, far enough not to disturb either of them. I don’t take my eyes off the two of them for several minutes. Maybe because I still can’t reconcile the sight: a wounded beast-child curled up against my sablehound like he belongs there.

  I hope—quietly, fiercely—that after food and medical care, after safety sinks in, he’ll agree to come back with us. I can’t leave him to fend for himself in a broken archive beneath the desert. And if my suspicion is right—if he truly came from that northern swamp tribe—then whatever he ran from will only get worse if left unattended.

  The thought burns in my chest.

  Footsteps approach, soft but deliberate. I turn to find Helisti crossing the chamber with Narai shadowing her. She stops beside the central console—the massive, half-biological, half-crystalline device pulsing in the heart of the rotunda.

  “My King,” she says, pointing delicately to the structure, “is this the device you spoke of earlier?”

  I rise and walk to her. The machine looks even larger than I remember—like a cocoon forged from metal and grown from crystal veins. About the size of a small car, shaped almost like a dormant creature curled around its own core. Light hums through its seams in rhythmic waves, as if part of it is asleep and part of it is listening.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “This is what I used the last time we came here. It showed the cathedral schematic when I placed a memory crystal into it. We need to learn everything we can—how it works, if it can be reproduced, and what else it might be capable of. The Queen’s hive lost so much knowledge when she died. We need to reclaim whatever fragments remain.”

  Helisti’s eyes shine with scholar’s hunger. Her fingers hover over the surface before finally making contact. She moves carefully, reverently, brushing across embedded crystals that react to her touch with ripples of light. Each pulse shifts the tone in the room—higher, lower, quicker, deeper, like she’s playing an instrument she doesn’t yet know the rules for.

  Narai watches silently from her shoulder, his posture stiff, protective. I can't help but be grateful, after everything he’s just been through, he still commits fully to the mission.

  Helisti retrieves a small tool knife from her belt, a simple little thing used for scraping, cutting, prying. Nothing magical or impressive. She places it gently on an open plate of the console.

  The air vibrates.

  Light erupts across the chamber in a structured bloom, forming a precise holographic projection above the altar. A rotating construct of the knife floats there—rendered in luminous shapes, translucent but complete. Alongside it scrolls a column of information: material types, density readings, wear patterns, sharpening angles.

  Even a name appears.

  Hori Hori.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Is that… the tool’s proper name?”

  Helisti nods slowly, hand rising to touch the projection but stopping short. “It appears so. There’s even a definition… ‘digging and root-cutting blade, used by archaeologists.’ This device can analyze objects on a molecular level. And if it can read composition, it may be able to replicate or fabricate…”

  She trails off, shoulders trembling with restrained excitement.

  “So it can do more than show schematics,” I say. “Much more.”

  “Far more,” she breathes. “I’ll need time—privacy, experimentation, calibration—but this device might be the single most important find the Dominion has made since your coronation. Once I understand it fully… we could revolutionize construction, medicine, crafting—everything.”

  She glances toward Felkas, sleeping softly against Iskri, before turning back to me with a slight bow of her head.

  “Once we are not sharing the chamber with an injured outsider,” she says gently, “I will begin deeper tests. But… I also have a request.”

  Her expression folds into uncertainty,something rare for her.

  I tilt my head. “Speak your mind, Helisti.”

  “My King… you asked earlier about the Ashwing’s lair. And I do believe it needs to be excavated, cataloged, and studied. But the lair will take months—possibly longer—to explore thoroughly. And this device…” She runs her palm across the console again. “The potential here is immediate. And monumental.”

  “You want to stay here,” I finish for her. “And send other teams to the lair.”

  She bows her head. “If you permit it.”

  A soft laugh escapes me, quiet, warm. “Helisti, I trust your judgment. If your instincts tell you this device is more valuable right now than the lair, then do it. This machine could advance the Dominion faster than any relic I’ve found so far. Do what you think will better our people.”

  Her eyes widen just a fraction—an emotion she rarely lets show—before she bows deeply.

  “Thank you, my King.”

  She turns immediately, already lost again in the machine, trailing her fingers along the crystalline lattice as though speaking to it in a language only she understands. Narai follows her like a silent shadow, keeping watch as she begins her examination anew.

  I start toward Felkas again when Cast’s voice rings through the resonance—clear, disciplined.

  “My King, the aid team has arrived.”

  The aid team descends into the archive chamber from the surface, their lantern-light washing over walls and shelves that only hours ago were swallowed in shadow. Now that the entire vault is illuminated, the air feels different. Thinner, safer, though part of me still stiffens at the memory of how the dark pressed in before. It doesn’t matter how many monsters I’ve fought or how many dragons I’ve survived, something about unfamiliar shadowed spaces still crawls beneath the skin. The mind waits for movement in the edges. Old instinct. Old fear.

  But the shadows are gone now. Every shelf, every corner, every ancient walkway shines under a spill of cool blue glowstones.

  Rhel leads Capri toward me. She moves with the composed urgency of someone who has seen far worse injuries than she ever wanted to. Her eyes flick over the lit chamber, taking in details quickly before locking onto me.

  “King Kyris,” she says, bowing her head. “I was told we have a special case in need of emergency medical treatment?”

  “A special case, yes,” I answer. “And one I don’t want to overwhelm. Are you able to treat him alone? Without the rest of your team crowding him?” I gesture toward the far side of the chamber, where Felkas still sleeps curled against Iskri’s flank.

  Capri nods immediately. “Of course.”

  She follows me across the room. Iskri lifts his head as we approach, golden eyes flicking from me to Capri, then back to the sleeping boy. He doesn’t move from his place, doesn’t need to. His body is a wall between Felkas and the world.

  Capri inhales softly. “Oh… that was a brilliant idea, my King. Having Iskri lie with him like this will make the treatment far easier.”

  I blink. “What do you mean?”

  She stops, then gives a small, apologetic bow. “Ah—my apologies. I assumed you positioned them intentionally. The Sable Choir moth-line produces a natural calming powder in their wing membranes. The sablehounds inherited the same ability in their manes. When they want to soothe or protect another creature, they release a fine dust. It helps induce sleep and suppress panic.”

  I stare down at Iskri. His chest rumbles with a single amused purr as if he knows exactly what she’s saying.

  “So you… planned this?” I murmur, scratching his fur. “You really are smarter than you let on.”

  He presses into my touch, entirely unbothered by the attention.

  Sometimes I forget what the sablehounds used to be. Drones once, mindless workers scurrying through tunnels. Now they sit at our side like guardian beasts from old myths, half-pet, half-partner. There’s intelligence in those eyes, more than animal, less than Hekari, something strange and in-between.

  Capri kneels beside Felkas, her expression tightening the moment she gets a closer look. She lifts one of his hands gently.

  “Oh gods… look at this…” Her voice cracks. “Multiple fractures. Several bones broken clean through. These patterns—” she traces along the back of his hand “—this is stomping damage. Or crushing. Someone pinned his arm and stepped on his hand until it broke.”

  My jaw clenches, heat rising under my skin.

  Capri reaches toward his right hand next and inhales sharply. “He’s missing a finger. Recently. Days old at most.”

  I swallow the spike of anger twisting in my throat.

  She shifts her hands to his chest, brushing lightly along the matted fur. “He was struck here,” she murmurs, indicating a diagonal bruise. “And here. Both sides. Someone held him upright while two others beat him with rods or canes. Thin instruments, flexible—see the slight upward tilt of each bruise? Each arc shows the angle of the swing. Left strike, right strike. Repeated.”

  Her tone is equal parts physician and horrified witness.

  “This boy wasn’t merely attacked,” she whispers. “He was tortured.”

  I force myself to breathe. I can’t lash out now. Not without knowing who did this. Not without understanding why he was sent to me.

  My eyes drift to the ground near his curled hand. Something small lies beside his fingers—a scrap of paper, half-crumpled, damp from sweat or tears.

  I kneel, careful not to disturb him, and pick it up.

  The paper unfolds stiffly, edges torn, the handwriting jagged and hurried. Only a few words are scrawled across it—just enough to make my stomach drop.

  Get to Kyris.

  Keep you safe.

  Do not return, too late.

  A chill runs through me. The vault suddenly feels colder despite the glowstone warmth.

  Someone sent him here.

  Someone risked everything to push him toward my kingdom.

  And someone believed—rightly or wrongly—that returning north meant death.

  I stare at the note again, reading it three times without blinking.

  What the hell happened to the swamp north?

  Because whatever it was… it’s no longer contained up there.

  And the consequences just arrived in my hands.