Milo’s hands were the worst of it.
She’d remembered them as capable, quick—the hands of a chef who could dice an onion in seconds and plate a dish with artistic precision. Now they were swollen, the skin blistered and raw, blackened at the fingertips like he’d held them in fire.
Not fire. Corruption.
Scattered around his table, shattered vials oozed purple-black essence across the stone. The residue crawled up his wrists, leaving chemical burns in trails that looked almost like writing. Like someone had been testing how much contact his skin could withstand before it failed.
“They made us touch them.” Rowan’s voice cracked as Elsa worked on his ankle restraints. “The poisoned tears. Said we were ‘blessed’ like you. Said our touch might purify the corruption.”
The second Saber had moved to Milo’s table, her claws making quick work of his restraints. The chef stirred, moaning softly, but didn’t wake. Elsa found herself grateful for his unconsciousness—no one should have to relive this hell while still trapped inside it.
“Did it work?” Elsa heard herself ask. The navigator in her brain was already cataloguing, already calculating, already seeing the implications spiraling outward like cracks in ice.
“Sometimes.” Rowan sat up slowly, swaying, his punctured arms crossing over his chest like he could hold himself together through sheer will. “Small doses. Brief contact. The corruption would...fade. A little. Not enough.” His jaw tightened. “Never enough for him. He kept increasing the exposure. Kept taking our blood to study what made it work. Kept—”
His voice broke. He looked away, but not before Elsa saw the shine of tears he was too exhausted to shed.
The Saber lifted Milo over her shoulder with surprising gentleness. Her amber eyes met Elsa’s, heavy with understanding that needed no words.
This is what they wanted her for. This is what they would have done.
“Can you walk?” Elsa asked Rowan, her voice steadier than she felt.
He answered by swinging his legs off the table and standing. His knees buckled immediately, and she caught him, his weight settling against her shoulder. He smelled of blood and fear and the chemical sweetness that permeated everything in this nightmare space.
“I can run if I have to.” The ghost of his old stubbornness flickered in his ravaged face. “Where’s the exit?”
“Up and to the right. Stay between the Sabers. Don’t stop for anything.”
She turned to leave, then stopped. The vials. The blood samples. The careful documentation of Vask’s experiments, preserved in glass and iron and suffering.
“Destroy it,” she said to the remaining Saber. “All of it. Don’t leave him anything to rebuild from.”
The Saber’s smile was all teeth. “With pleasure.”
They’d made it halfway back through the secondary passage when the world went sideways.
The attack came from above—a shape dropping from a ventilation shaft Elsa hadn’t noticed, landing between her and the Sabers with a crash that shook the tunnel.
Not Vask.
Bigger. Broader. Armor scarred from years of violence, dented and worn in ways that spoke of countless fights survived. Dark gray fur, almost black at the tips. Amber eyes that held the flat patience of a predator who enjoyed his work.
Krix. The priest’s shadow. The one who had held Milo’s hands against corrupted cores while the chef screamed. The one who had drawn Rowan’s blood in neat, methodical rows.
“The priest’s pet project,” he purred, straightening to his full height. “Trying to slip away before the demonstration.” His gaze swept over the Sabers, over Rowan and Milo, before settling on Elsa. “Vask will be disappointed he missed this.”
He doesn’t know.
The realization settled cold in her chest. Krix had no idea his master was already dead—that Sylas had crushed Vask’s throat in that holding cell while witnesses watched.
The Sabers lunged. Krix moved faster—a blur of fur and claws that sent one crashing into the wall and caught the other by the throat. He held her there, choking, while his gaze stayed locked on Elsa.
“Run,” the pinned Saber gasped, her claws scraping uselessly at Krix’s grip. “Human—run—”
Elsa didn’t run.
She stepped forward, placing herself between Krix and the two humans slumped over the Sabers’ shoulders behind her, and lifted her chin. “Let them go.”