The lab breathes.
The machines whisper.
The Son has fled.
The Daughter awakens.
Geppetto smiles.
A Queen descends.
No harp, no hope.
Just heels.
She finds gods where she asked for dolls.
Too late.
Somewhere else—
a girl survives.
A sister kneels.
A weapon speaks.
"I am not human."
But he wants to be.
Truth tastes like rust.
Fire walks beside shadow.
Orders are given.
A depot waits.
Lead.
Steel..
And far below—
a heart still beats.
Maybe metal.
Maybe not.
Flames.
Screams.
Blood sizzling on molten steel.
Fire dancing between bodies like a rabid beast.
Noah runs.
Runs with his runic blade in hand—Aetherfang—howling into the darkness.
Men behind him—brothers, soldiers, inquisitors.
All fallen.
Burned alive, crumpled inside their melted armor.
One. Two. Five. Twelve.
And then... him.
Not a man, that much was certain.
And if he was a machine, then the engineer could only be the devil himself.
A divine mistake.
Skin that repelled blades.
Golden eyes, cold as the void.
Movements too fast to follow, too precise to be human.
And beside him... the Fire Witch.
A duel that should never have begun.
That could not be won.
The moment when Noah, Captain of the Inquisition, truly understood what fear was.
Then—flames.
Again.
Everywhere.
And the pain.
Screams that were no longer others'.
They were his.
He wakes.
As if pulled from hell.
His heart pounding like a crazed war drum.
His breath—shards of glass in his lungs.
Sweat streaming down his forehead, down his clenched jaw.
He folds into himself.
The body doesn't respond.
His head is a furnace.
Each heartbeat, a jolt.
Rough sheets.
The stench of disinfectant, tinged with old blood.
A high, gothic ceiling swallowed by shadow.
He's in a bed.
The military hospital of the Grand Cathedral.
In the Holy City.
His home.
He tries to lift his left arm.
It doesn't move.
It's not paralysis.
It's… absence.
A searing pain explodes across his shoulder.
He lowers his gaze.
Black gauze, soaked in healing agents.
Burns that devoured the flesh.
Once, there were muscles there.
Veins. Strength.
Now there's only… charred void.
Hellfire's signature.
Aetherfang will never be held again.
The runic sword.
The arm of Inquisitorial justice.
The symbol of his oath—and his past.
The Captain of the Inquisition.
Reduced to wreckage.
A hunting dog, the best of them all, with one leg missing.
Darkness consumes him.
Not the room.
His mind collapses.
Despair is cold.
It doesn't scream.
It seeps in.
"What use am I now?"
"Why am I still alive?"
Then—the voice.
It doesn't enter.
It descends.
Like an organ trembling from the depths.
Like a truth that doesn't need to be understood—
Only accepted.
"Noah."
Everything stops.
The heart.
The breath.
Time itself.
The voice isn't just deep.
It's absolute.
Like the first day.
Noah trembles.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
It's the voice of the High Inquisitor.
His master.
Measured steps.
Slow.
Solemn.
As if each step were a prayer.
Or a sentence.
No one knows his true name.
A shadow too deep to be chased away.
Too heavy to be ignored.
The High Inquisitor approaches the bed.
Tall. Straight.
Majestically and inexplicably intact, despite his age.
His skin is thin, but not fragile.
Wrinkled by time, yet stretched over a skeleton that has never bent.
But that has always bent, condemned, and eradicated what was deemed heretical and impure.
His gaze: midnight blue.
Set in an ivory face, smoothed by years of silence, judgment, and execution.
Eyes that don't see the world—they measure it.
Eyes that already know everything before you speak.
Noah lowers his gaze.
The gaze of a wounded hound before its master.
"Forgive me," he whispers.
A voice as broken as he is.
"I… failed."
He swallows.
Every word costs him pain.
Physical and spiritual.
The High Inquisitor stands motionless.
A statue carved from something colder than stone.
Then… he smiles.
A small smile.
Barely there.
Without warmth.
Like the edge of a scalpel.
"Noah."
The voice is honey poured over ice.
Low.
Perfect.
Sharp, without ever rising.
"I'm not here to condemn."
Noah stiffens.
That's worse.
"I just want to understand," the man continues, stepping closer.
Now close enough to touch him.
But he doesn't.
"Tell me about the hell you escaped. About the abomination I ordered you to kill. About the Witch I commanded you to capture."
There's no anger.
No blame.
And for that very reason… Noah feels the weight of every word like a nail driven into flesh.
"I saw… fire. My men's screams—they didn't even sound human. They were… like children burning alive. I've never—never—seen anything like it."
The High Inquisitor doesn't interrupt.
Doesn't comment.
He listens.
Noah swallows again.
Closes his eyes for a moment.
Then opens them.
"Then… him."
Silence.
Heavy.
"He wasn't a man. Maybe a machine. He moved like thought. Every strike was perfect. Every motion… calculated. Our weapons were useless."
The Inquisitor's smile widens.
Not enough to become a sneer.
Just enough to suggest he already knew.
"And the Witch?"
The voice—almost paternal.
Almost.
"They were… like allies. At first, she seemed ready to burn him with the rest of us, but then… then it was like they were protecting each other."
The High Inquisitor closes his eyes briefly.
A single heartbeat.
Like a thought slipping into shadow.
Then opens them again.
The frost remains.
"Interesting."
Then he leans forward slightly.
Not out of respect.
Out of strategy.
"Noah… you've been broken."
A pause.
Just a few seconds.
But enough for the shame to bite deeper.
"But it is not written that you must remain so."
Noah lifts his gaze, confused.
Hope?
No.
Something sadder: a hunger for forgiveness.
"If you so choose… we will remake you."
The tone turns almost… tender.
Like a craftsman speaking of his favorite metal.
"We'll give you new flesh, new strength. You will wield your blade again—for me."
Those midnight blue eyes cut through him.
Pin him in place.
"You've seen what no one else has. You've touched the abomination. Felt the Witch's fire. And survived."
The High Inquisitor straightens.
"We do not discard survivors. We… reassemble them."
Then he turns.
One step.
Two.
But before leaving, he stops.
"Noah," he says, without turning around.
"Rest. Reflect. And when you're ready… come to me."
And then—only footsteps.
Growing fainter.
The door has closed.
Silence returns.
But it isn't peace.
Noah remains.
Lying down.
Sweating.
Trembling.
The phantom limb burns as if it still existed.
"We will remake you."
Words like nails hammered into flesh.
As if he were an object.
A tool.
As if he had always been one.
But how?
How can a mutilated man… be useful?
There is no healing for such horror.
No doctor.
No magic.
Unless…
Noah's eyes fly open.
A bolt of terror cuts through his chest.
Alchemy.
No.
No, it can't be.
The Church forbids it.
Condemns it.
It is impure.
It is heresy.
And yet—Inquisitors are allowed alchemical weapons.
Potions, runes, glyphs… his faithful Aetherfang.
But the body?
The body is sacred.
To alter flesh is blasphemy.
To rebuild it… desecration.
And if that's truly what the High Inquisitor means?
To remake him—not metaphorically. Not spiritually.
But literally.
Noah breathes in—barely.
Each breath bites into his ribs.
Each thought, poison.
When he closes his eyes, he feels himself… slipping.
As he always does.
When he's lost.
When he can't tell if what's left of him is still human.
His heart travels backward.
Away from the bed.
Away from the Cathedral.
Away from Faith.
And it brings him to a forest.
In the fog.
In the blood.
In the past.
Another name.
Another man.
Another face.
The Huntsman.
There was no master.
No Church.
There was only him.
And an order.
Bring me the girl's heart.
The Evil Queen's voice still echoed in his bones.
A command—sharp.
Undebatable.
Irrefutable.
And yet… he disobeyed.
Not out of pity.
Not out of mercy.
But out of justice.
Because when he saw her—the girl.
"I'm not your monster."
And she looked at him.
Eyes red. But alive.
That day, Noah rejected the spark that had just begun in his chest.
He fled.
Left her behind,
alone in the dark.
But when they met again—
Noah stayed.
Because she truly had been left alone.
Vulnerable.
Target of the Queen's jealousy and cruel wrath.
Caked in mud.
Streaked with blood.
But still breathing.
And around her—seven bodies.
Seven small bodies.
Seven heroes.
They had fought to the end.
To protect their angel from the Queen's blades.
This time, she didn't run from the Huntsman.
She embraced him.
Among broken branches and rotting leaves.
Among crows and corpses.
She embraced him.
And in that moment—he felt something ignite.
Light.
Not from the world.
Not from the Enchanted Dominion.
But from within… the two of them.
They made a vow.
Hands clasped, hearts choking.
To bring light to that blackened realm.
To break the chains.
And for a moment… Noah believed.
Truly believed.
Then… time.
Then… the Church.
Then… everything else.
Now—now he is only a shadow.
A broken hound.
Perhaps ready to become… something worse.
Or something new.
But the name he once carried—that name… he never fully forgot.
And neither did she.
---
A few days have passed.
Not many.
Just enough to forget the cacophony of screams, the crackle of flames devouring metal, stone, flesh.
Just enough to remember what it means to sleep with both eyes closed.
Enya wakes in silence.
No imperial sirens howling.
No stench of ash and burned meat.
Only the steady breathing of the one sleeping in the bed next to hers.
Neve.
Peace is an illusion.
But it's the sweetest she's ever tasted.
Better than Gothel's poisonous whispers.
Better than the complicit silence of the corpses she left behind.
The time for lies is over.
Neve has started to explore the shelter.
They call it "the Spine."
A skeleton of concrete buried in the depths of the Undercity.
Narrow corridors.
Flickering lights.
The constant noise of pipes, dripping, and stifled laughter.
The children look at her with curiosity.
She looks at them the way one stares at something long thought extinct: innocence.
Miranda took them in.
One by one.
Like tiny seeds under dirty rain.
She's not motherly.
She's not gentle.
But she is present.
And for them, that's enough.
Neve sits among them.
Speaks little.
Smiles more.
One day she asked Enya:
"Can I have some books?"
Her sister almost cried.
Masie and Miranda, meanwhile, have not wasted time.
The mission.
The strike.
The boldest in the Resistance's history.
An attack on the military's beating heart.
The Lead Square.
The distribution center.
The arsenal.
The temple of war.
And this time... it's not sabotage.
It's a message.
Ravan has watched everything.
Said nothing.
He walks the corridors like a curious shadow.
Not intrusive.
Not distant.
He's just... there.
But when he looks at Enya—it's not with pity.
It's with focus.
As if every move she makes is part of an equation.
As if every word, every glance, every silence… is a code.
And Enya has noticed.
Tonight, the shelter is quieter than usual.
The rooms seem to hold their breath.
The corridors echo with something that isn't sound.
It's the shadow of fear.
Because tomorrow… they leave.
Tomorrow, the Fire Witch and the Golden Prince will descend into the heart of the Capital.
And there are only three possibilities:
success, death, or torture.
No one dares speak the word return.
But for now—just one night.
One.
A stolen truce.
Neve sleeps.
Ravan studies the maps.
Enya… stares at the ceiling.
She doesn't pray.
She doesn't dream.
She counts her own heartbeats, as if they might detonate.
And for the first time in years, she feels no hate.
No guilt.
She feels… possibility.
Tomorrow, they burn again.
Dawn has never had color in the Capital.
Only gray.
Gray that drips between buildings.
Gray on the streets.
Gray in the throat.
The sun is never truly seen.
Just a dirty glow beyond the chimneys and smoke.
Enya pulls her cloak tight.
The cold doesn't bother her.
It's the humidity.
The humidity of the upper world.
The kind that seeps into the skin, down to the bones.
Next to her, Ravan moves in silence.
Light-footed.
Focused.
Never distracted.
Never afraid.
Ahead, Masie leads the way.
Face half-covered by a mask.
Eyes that don't know hesitation.
Behind them, six guerrilla fighters.
Dressed as civilians.
Weapons hidden beneath coats.
Eyes sharp as shattered glass.
They reached the surface through an old water duct, long dry and forgotten.
"We could've done this last night," Enya says.
"General Albrecht's paranoid. The ducts are patrolled at night," Masie answers, with half a smile.
"And they leave them unguarded by day?"
"During the day his informants skulk around. He threatens their families to force them. But the idiot doesn't know we've tracked down and secured all their families."
"And if he finds out?"
Masie stops, sighs, and turns to Enya.
Her eyes hidden behind the mask to conceal the sorrow.
"Have you seen all the orphans in HQ?"
Her voice is flat.
Dark.
Like an obituary.
Enya doesn't reply.
Doesn't show emotion.
But her heart tightens.
She can't stop thinking about Neve.
Now they are in the middle ring.
The military zone.
A maze of endless construction sites worked by thousands of invisible laborers.
The Lead Square sprawls ahead like a wound in the heart of the Ring.
Vast.
Fenced.
Watchtowers every forty meters.
Armed sentries.
Floodlights that pierce even fog.
A cathedral of control.
Masie halts behind a crumbled column.
Everyone drops low—no order needed.
The movements are synchronized.
Surgical.
She watches in silence.
Then points.
Three points along the perimeter.
Blind spots.
Tiny.
But real.
"During the day, we observe. No action," Masie murmurs. "We've got moles inside. Four as of yesterday. They'll confirm the green light at sunset. Until then... we stay invisible."
Enya nods.
So does Ravan.
No words wasted.
No questions.
Only eyes scanning each movement, each patrol rhythm, every opening in the gates, every window lit too long.
Time stretches.
The sun does not rise.
It simply loses ground to darkness.
From time to time, an officer exits.
A guard is replaced.
A steam-wagon is loaded.
Ravan takes mental notes.
Every sequence.
Every mistake.
Enya watches a sentry's hands tremble from the cold.
The crooked fold of his jacket.
The sword, too heavy at his side.
Small weaknesses.
Humanity.
Cracks.
Then Masie turns.
"Tonight," she says quietly.
"Once we're in, we destroy the stockpiles—weapons, ammunition, automatons. We burn everything."
A spark flashes in her eyes.
"And we leave a message for the Empress."
The day passes slowly.
Silent movement.
Quick glances.
No surprises.
Only waiting.
And then—when the sky turns to coal
and the towers light up with mechanical gold—a light.
Thin.
From the west tower.
A code.
Three pulses.
A pause.
One.
The signal.
Masie turns.
"It's time."