Oriun's amethyst eyes smoldered with an intensity that bordered on apocalyptic—cold fury layered atop unbridled rage, controlled only by his disciplined malice. The long, alabaster hair that usually cascaded over his shoulders in silken sheets was now hidden beneath a heavy, onyx hood, its shadow obscuring all but the sharp angles of his face. His elaborate armor, once gleaming with interwoven silver and deep violet filigree, lay concealed beneath the folds of the cloak that clung to his broad, towering frame like a shroud of death.
His expression twisted into something monstrous—angular features pulled tight into a smile that was neither warm nor sane. The satisfaction painted across his face was dark and unholy. In a sudden blur of movement, he clamped an illuminated metallic collar around Sil's neck. The sound of it locking into place echoed with a finality that sent a jolt through the corridor—clank, a damning punctuation mark.
Almost instantly, the device whirred softly, its hum more magical than mechanical, an amalgamation of deeply etched incantations activating at once. Sil felt it before he truly understood it—his entire body becoming impossibly heavy, every limb dragged downward by a force that mocked gravity itself. It was as though he'd been encased in a powered exosuit that had catastrophically failed, rendering every movement not just difficult but torturous.
Had he not already been there, he would have dropped to his knees, right there and then.
From this humiliating angle, his gaze met that of Oriun—the same monster who had orchestrated Bliss's torment. And for the first time in years, Sil felt something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in ages: helplessness. A storm of emotion surged up violently inside him, no single sensation dominant. Rage, hot and absolute, flooded his veins, burning like a wildfire through every capillary until his body trembled with the effort to contain it.
His heart pounded so ferociously that it felt as though his ribcage might crack open. The beat echoed through his skull, a war drum of fury and humiliation that threatened to deafen him from within. The pain of it was sharp, nauseating.
But just as quickly as the anger peaked, a tidal wave of guilt crashed over him.
He had left his brothers. Just left them. Without so much as a word. What if they thought he had abandoned them? They were strong—of course they were—but they weren't him. They didn't carry the memories he did, the weight of history, experience and power. They hadn't lived the life he had. And still, he'd vanished without a plan, without backup, without foresight.
The shame of it carved a hole into him, deeper than any wound a blade could make.
Sorrow, guilt, and raw, helpless frustration pulled at him like an undertow, dragging his will below the surface. He could hardly breathe beneath the emotional pressure. Oriun's laughter followed soon after—low, delighted, utterly unnatural. It slithered through the hall like smoke and infected the air with its rancid presence. The timbre of it was wrong, fundamentally so, a sound not meant for mortal comprehension. It pierced Sil's brain like a needle of cold steel, setting his nerves on edge and making his ears ring.
He barely registered the metallic clinks of more restraints being fastened—one on his right wrist, then the other. Matching shackles, cold and humming with enchantment. He didn't need to turn to know who was securing them.
Vespera.
She emerged from behind him, stepping into his field of vision with a slow, deliberate grace that belied her brutal strength. Her armor—obsidian black veined with molten crimson—pulsed gently, a grotesque mimicry of a heartbeat. Her bronze skin gleamed beneath red, rune-like tattoos that glowed with otherworldly energy. Her raven-black hair was also hidden beneath the large dark hood of her cloak, a dark veil of shadow framing her merciless golden eyes.
But today, those eyes sparkled faintly with something more than indifference. Amusement. Triumph. Satisfaction. If Sil hadn't known better, he might have called it glee.
And on her lips—a smirk. Faint, restrained, but unmistakably there, the slightest curl dancing along the edge of her thin, pursed lips.
It very nearly broke him.
The weight of it all—their victory, their amusement, his own foolish miscalculation—settled inside him like lead. His pride collapsed in on itself, crushed by the enormity of his foolish mistake. He had been reckless, idiotic even. So focused on getting Bliss out of that cursed machine, he hadn't seen the trap laid out so plainly before him.
What was she doing to him? Bliss. She'd addled his thinking, clouded his instincts. Made him forget who he was. Right? Ever since he had started exploring her body he could hardly think of anything else.
It turns out, it was probably a really great thing for humanity that he and Quinn had never gotten the opportunity to focus on girls back at the academy. If either of them had gotten the chance to study extra circular activities of the carnal nature— they might very well have lost the second Dalki War.
Now he was captured and exposed. His cover obliterated. His brothers, likely still inside the compound, were now in even greater danger. And Bliss? She was no closer to rescue—possibly farther from it now that he had blundered into this snare.
Sil sagged under the crushing weight of his own muscular form. His broad shoulders hunched low, defeated beneath the enchanted shackles. His head bowed. So too did his spirit. No escape plan formed in his mind. No miracle strategy leapt forward.
He was trapped. Helpless.
He needed to warn his brothers, somehow. But how? How? His mind rolled through every possible idea he could muster, but none of them played out. He was met with a cold, jarring, dead end each and every time. He remained slumped, deflated, shackled, and still on his knees before Oriun's chilling gaze.
Sil looked broken, he felt it too. Head bowed, a grimace plastered across his face as he mentally hit brick wall after brick wall. His resolve weakened with each failed idea, until he felt a hand grasp the top of his head. With a sharp inhale he braced for whatever was to come next— expecting it to be his swift and merciless end.
Astonishingly though it wasn't. He didn't even bother attempting to struggle or fight against it. Sil did not even try to meet Oriun's gaze. Without any words being spoken, Sil abruptly lost consciousness, plunging deep into a peaceful, sound slumber. His lifeless body crumpled unceremoniously— like a wet cloth, to the cold metallic floor.