359 Days Until the Fall of House Romulus

  All was ready.

  The inquisitors had allowed time to pass, five days, long enough for House Zid to return home and settle in. Long enough to make them believe they were safe again.

  Mikhael hadn't seen much of the inquisitors since. He hadn't seen much of anyone, truth be told. The manor had grown quieter, colder. Even the servants kept their eyes low around him now, as if they sensed something foreign in him.

  Only Romulus had been a constant presence, preparing him for the journey, not out of warmth, but out of precision. He did not want Mikhael embarrassing the estate. Romulus had selected the clothes himself: a travel coat lined with subtle sealwork, boots reinforced for long terrain, a pouch of ripe amulets, red and heavy with energy. He made no comment about Mikhael's wrapped hand.

  Mikhael was mostly glad the priest had backed off. Under inquisitorial authority now, the man had become irrelevant. Mikhael could admit it to himself: if the priest had tried anything more, he would have killed him. And that would have meant losing everything he had built so far.

  Johan, Emma, and Valentin had reconciled under Valentina's pressing hand. Mikhael saw them from a distance once, laughing, Emma softer now, Valentin visibly awkward, Johan watching but not speaking to him. None of them had come to him. Not after what he said.

  Only William had. He came on the third morning, said nothing of their argument, just clasped Mikhael's shoulder and wished him luck. Mikhael had wanted to say something sharp. Something cold. But he only nodded. He figured William assumed he was too young to understand the world. Mikhael figured the same about William.

  Now the sun was dipping low, casting amber light across the courtyard. The carriages were loaded. The horses shifted restlessly. Mikhael stood beside the inquisitors in silence.

  Romulus had come to see them off with only two servants at his back.

  Vireth tilted his head, glancing sideways. "We go to get our hands dirty," he said, voice smooth. "And it's only him that sees us off. A stark contrast since we arrived, isn't it?"

  "I don't need anyone seeing us off," Naevin said as he adjusted the cuff of his traveling cloak. "They irritated me anyway."

  Mikhael stood at attention, wrapped hand hidden beneath his sleeve.

  They were setting off as the sun fell behind the hills. Vireth did not want to travel by day. "I refuse to be tanned," he had said the night before.

  The sky burned gold, then red, then darkened into ash. Just as Mikhael was about to step toward the carriage, Naevin turned to him.

  Without a word, he drew something from beneath his cloak and extended it: a necklace, black cord, a small etched seal glinting in the dusk.

  Mikhael took it with both hands, hesitant. "What is this?"

  "You're to wear it," Naevin said. "You will draw from my power."

  He tilted his head slightly, as if the words puzzled even him. "For some reason… I had a vision. I'm meant to give you this."

  Mikhael bowed low, hands still clutching the necklace. "Thank you."

  And then it clicked. That fire, that voice, that offer, a god or whatever it was.

  "I will give you power, for a time."

  He had not known what to expect. He had not dared to expect anything at all. But this was more than he could have imagined. To draw from an inquisitor's strength, to carry that essence within him, it was not just survival.

  It was momentum.

  Naevin turned away.

  "Shall we?" Vireth asked, already stepping toward the edge of the courtyard.

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  Naevin nodded.

  One of the servants handed Mikhael a pack and Naevin's weapon. It weighed more than it looked. But the moment he focused on the seal hanging at his neck, the strain lessened, subtly, like a hand lifting part of the load.

  Romulus bowed. Mikhael stood tall beside the inquisitors, and for the first time, it truly felt like Romulus was bowing to him. He did not smile, but he savored the feeling.

  "May your journey be pleasant, Your Holiness," Romulus said.

  Naevin gave a dismissive wave. Vireth adjusted his coat.

  And the three of them set their gaze toward the south. Toward House Zid.

  They did not take horses. No carriages. No announcements.

  Vireth stepped to the edge of the courtyard, brushing dust from his sleeve with deliberate precision. Naevin glanced back once.

  "Try not to blink," he said, the corner of his mouth tilting.

  Then they vanished. No blur. No flash. Just gone. One moment, two inquisitors. The next, empty space and the faint hum of wind.

  Move.

  Mikhael's body snapped into motion before his mind caught up. He launched forward, boots hammering the stone, breath exploding from his lungs. He did not think.

  He just chased.

  They were ahead, two figures already halfway down the slope, flickering like tricks of the eye, bending the forest around their path.

  He activated the seal at his neck. The world sharpened, pain dulled, light cut cleaner, every root and dip in the trail revealing itself in brutal clarity. And he ran. Branches scraped his shoulders. Rocks tore at his boots. His lungs burned.

  But he moved.

  Every part of him screamed, but deeper, beneath it, something else stirred.

  Pride.

  Not the brittle kind that came with petty victories. Something sharper. Harder. More dangerous. He was keeping up. Not beside them. Not easily. But close enough.

  Mikhael smiled. Not the shallow smile of obedience. Not the careful mask he wore for nobles.

  A real smile.

  If the boys in his village could see him now, racing through the dark with monsters, they would call him a liar. He laughed, breathless and broken.

  The staff on his back clattered with each step. His wrapped hand throbbed under the cloth. Sweat soaked through his shirt. But he did not stop.

  And when the inquisitors slowed at the crest of a soft hill, pausing beneath the last slant of sun, Mikhael staggered in only seconds behind. He stopped, chest heaving, coat heavy with dust.

  Naevin looked over his shoulder. Vireth did not even glance.

  "You're not entirely useless," Naevin said, his voice unreadable.

  Mikhael did not answer. He did not need to. He had made it.

  They did not slow after that brief crest, after the glance, the remark, the small scrap of recognition. They were off again.

  No signal. No words. Just movement.

  And Mikhael followed. He had no choice.

  Soon, his legs were fire. Every step felt like dragging iron through mud. His breath came in shallow bursts, the pack on his back cutting deeper with every jolt. His boots were soaked from some stream he could not even remember crossing.

  He was still moving. But only because of the seal. If he let it go, if he even thought about releasing it, he knew his knees would give way, and that would be it. He would not get up again. The forest blurred past him. Trees, rocks, branches, none of it mattered. The inquisitors were always ahead. Not far. Never far. But never within reach.

  Sleep gnawed at the edges of his mind like rats. He blinked, and for a terrifying moment, forgot where he was. Just trees. Just motion. Just pain. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, forcing his mind to stay present.

  One step. Another. Another.

  Naevin did not look back. Vireth did not even seem aware there was a world behind him. They had not spoken once since departure. No campfire. No food. No rest. Just movement. And the seal, the only thing holding his body together, throbbed hotter now, pulling at him like a leash he could not remove.

  As the night progressed, the seal still pulsed at his neck. A dull, constant throb now. Not like before, not like that first rush of strength that had made him feel untouchable. Now it was like a rope around his spine, hauling him forward by force.

  Naevin and Vireth moved like shadows ahead. Effortless. Weightless. The ground seemed to part for them. The wind shifted around them. They were never winded. Never wrong-footed.

  Mikhael followed. Or tried to. At first, he kept the rhythm. His boots hit the ground in time. His breathing stayed even. The world was a blur of motion, trees, dirt, wind, stone, but he was moving with it.

  Then came the ache.

  It started in his calves. A low heat, easy to ignore. But it spread. Up his thighs. Into his back. Across his shoulders like a net of stone. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward. Adjusted his pack. Tightened the strap. Bit the inside of his cheek.

  It helped.

  For a while.

  Somewhere past the midpoint of the night, it got worse. His vision blurred. The world tipped sideways. His lungs began to feel too small for his chest. He lost track of the path once, just once, his boot catching on a root. He staggered, slammed into a tree, bark scraping his arm.

  No one looked back.

  He forced himself forward again. He had to keep going. He had to. He was not sure how long he ran like that, eyes half-lidded, heart screaming, limbs not responding the way they should. At some point, he realized his body was moving without him. Like a corpse jerked by strings.

  His thoughts began to drift. The trees stopped looking like trees. They looked like towers. Then like people. Then like nothing. A soft noise escaped his lips. A groan? A breath? He could not tell.

  His legs buckled once. He caught himself.

  Then again.

  And this time, he did not.

  The ground hit him hard. Not like a stumble. Not like a fall in training.

  Like a final shut-off.

  Face first, arms limp, knees cracking stone. His body refused to rise. The seal at his neck sputtered, tried to catch him, failed. His vision narrowed to a single point of darkness, and the last thing he heard was footsteps continuing without him.

  And then silence.