"Hhnnnh—!" William clenched his jaw, stifling the groan that clawed at his throat as he staggered upright.
His chest heaved. But with each breath, the fog cleared from his vision, until it settled on the figure before him.
"…Hugh…" William rasped. "How are you still alive?"
A low chuckle rumbled from Hugh as his metal eye spun lazily. "Just a simple trick. If I hadn't faked my death, I'd have never survived this long. Not with the Harbinger filth and their traitorous hounds sniffing at my heels."
But William wasn't truly asking about that. His gaze drifted past Hugh, towards the boy lying motionless on the stone floor.
A crimson veil clung to the boy's skin, his veins darkening, pulsing with an ink-like substance that was not blood.
Hugh followed his line of sight, lifting a brow, or what remained of one. "Ah… William. Do you remember the boy I told you about? The one who stumbled into our preparations?"
William's eyes narrowed. "You can't mean…"
"I do." Hugh's voice dropped. "It was him."
They both stared at the boy's body. It spasmed—jerking violently—mouth frozen open in a scream that made no sound. Not one.
"You're telling me you did this?" William scoffed. "You expect me to believe you defeated him? Alone?"
Hugh shrugged. "Believe what you will. When we caught him, he didn't fight. Just wept. Begged. He was a scared little noble brat. Nothing like… this."
William said nothing, but doubt crept in, cold and sharp. That same boy had nearly killed him. With ease.
"To become this in just a few weeks…" he murmured. "What kind of power has he touched?"
"It doesn't matter." Hugh turned from the boy, facing William once more. "He's dead. And with him, we'll finish what he interrupted. His life will be the tether. A new link to the Subspace."
He hesitated, lips tightening. "We don't have time to linger. Baron Talbot's forces are closing in. All we can do now is hope the ritual took hold, and will restart using the boy as a sacrifice."
William crossed his arms. "And if it didn't?"
Hugh looked away, voice low. "Then at the very least, we've snuffed out the spark before it could become flame."
***
As Claude regained awareness, he immediately knew he was no longer in Hawden. The sensation was familiar by now, his mind cast adrift through a boundless sea of memories, only to be thrown in another place, another moment.
This time, he found himself in a vast underground chamber. No—a cell.
The air was heavy with dampness and the scent of mould, thick as wet wool. Rusted metal bars lined the front of the chamber, and on the ground, filthy, uneven stone slick with moisture, shackles lay tethered to iron rings hammered deep into the rock.
Clink!
The sound of chains echoed off the walls—sharp, metallic, and hollow. Claude's perspective shifted with a sudden lurch. His body had moved—but not by his will.
He wasn't in control again.
'Claude' groaned as he struggled upright, knees trembling. His arms jerked as the chains tugged at his limbs, and then he crumpled, falling hard to the floor.
The shackles rattled furiously as he hit the ground.
"Damn it…" 'Claude' hissed. "What do they want from me? Are they holding me hostage? To threaten my father?"
But the question drifted into the air unanswered. The chamber returned to silence.
Though he couldn't move, Claude felt everything. The ache in his limbs. The grime was clinging to his skin. Fatigue that pressed down like a second set of chains.
And yet, what troubled him most was not the pain—it was the anxiety. It gnawed at him, whispering what he dared not think aloud.
Is my real body vulnerable? Is it… already dead?
He already knew what type of people William and Hugh were.
Compassion was not something either man spared for a defenceless, unconscious boy. If they hadn't killed him yet, it was only because they needed something.
His thoughts twisted into darker places.
If I die here… does it all end? Will I be able to return?
Will I die before I ever understand Vitalis? Before I uncover the truth about this world?
Time ebbed like stagnant water. Whether minutes or hours passed, neither Claude nor 'Claude' could tell. Their shared silence was broken only by the slow drip of condensation from the ceiling.
Grrrrgh!
'Claude' body spasmed as his stomach growled. He curled on the ground, clutching his midsection with trembling hands.
"Why…?" He muttered. "Why is this happening to me…?"
Claude could feel the tremors in the boy's voice, the despair in his breath. "First, it was Mother. Then Henry… Am I next? But I haven't even… I haven't avenged them…"
Vision blurred. The muscles gave out. Claude felt the world go dim as 'Claude' slipped into unconsciousness, overwhelmed by hunger and grief.
Chnk!
A metallic creak sounded.
Crack—shatter!
The sound of something breaking—stone or wood, it was impossible to tell. But it came from outside the cell.
And it meant something had found them.
***
Claude's vision returned in a sluggish blur, like the flickering light of a candle fighting against the wind.
"Mngggh!" 'Claude' groaned, eyes wide with fear as he thrashed weakly on the cold stone floor. His mouth was gagged, the thick cloth biting into the corners of his lips, cutting off his voice.
Thrown into chaos once more, Claude focused inward, forcing himself to analyse the scene. He was no longer in the damp, stinking chamber from before. Instead, this place was clean—well-lit by a ring of overhead lanterns.
He lay flat at the center of a ritual circle carved with delicate glyphs and twisted letters. They weren't drawn in chalk or ink.
They were drawn in blood.
'Another ritual?' Claude's mind raced. The layout, the language etched in gore—it was familiar. Fragmented recollections churned within him. 'Am I getting closer to the truth?'
A strange sense of relief surfaced through the dread. The fact that he was still seeing—still thinking—meant he hadn't died outside. Not yet, at least.
But that raised another question: Why had William and Hugh spared him?
They had shown no trace of mercy before. What use did they have for him now?
Yet, he was not given the time to think as a circle of hooded figures surrounded him, silent and unmoving, watching from the outer edge of the glyph-lined ring. Their faces were obscured, their hands clasped in grim anticipation.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Bootsteps echoed down the corridor.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then, a familiar figure entered—Hugh, his half-metal face catching the lanternlight, his one good eye glinting with cold curiosity.
"Is this the last one we could find?" he asked flatly, voice echoing in the ritual chamber.
A robed man stepped forward, bowing slightly. "My Lord, we caught him spying earlier. We thought he might serve better as a vessel… than as a corpse."
Hugh's eye narrowed as it scanned Claude's dirt-smudged clothes and delicate features.
"…Noble-born?" He murmured.
The cultists exchanged uncertain glances. "Will that be a problem, Sir?"
Hugh let out a dry chuckle. "No. Noble. King. Peasant. They're all the same when bled dry. And really—how important could one child from a forgotten border town be?"
He stepped closer, expression unreadable.
"The others didn't survive the process. Their minds broke mid-ritual. Let's hope this one's spine isn't made of glass."
He turned to the rest. "Regardless, this is our final attempt. If it works, we'll have a fallback—another anchor, another link to the Subspace. Something we can ignite if the main ritual fails."
His voice lowered. "But we're out of time. William returns soon. And the Baron's protection won't last forever."
He raised his hand.
Snap.
With a crisp snap of his fingers, the circle closed in, a low hum beginning to build from the glyphs as the cultists began murmuring, their voices a blend of reverence and dread.
Hugh strode forward toward the centre.
'Claude' trembled violently, blue eyes stretched wide with terror.
His young frame writhed in panic, muffled cries spilling from his gagged mouth that formed a stark contrast with the manic calm radiating off the approaching Hugh.
Hugh pulled a blade from beneath his robe. The steel shimmered crimson, as though reflecting the blood of a hundred past victims.
He knelt beside 'Claude', the blade poised over his chest.
"By this sacred offering, may the veil be torn," Hugh intoned, voice sharp and clear. "May our cries reach the ears of the True God. May He descend… and devour the light."
Then, without hesitation—
Shhk!
The blade punched through the boy's sternum. 'Claude' jerked, eyes bulging, muffled screams caught in his throat.
Ssskrrrrch—!
The knife carved down through bone and flesh, a cruel stroke that split him from chest to navel.
The glyphs ignited, glowing a violent red. The circle drank in the blood that spilt, pulsing with each drop devoured.
Claude felt it all. The agony, the helplessness. He couldn't scream. Couldn't move. But the pain, the pain was real.
Burning, searing, impossible to forget. It tore through his nerves, embedding itself deep in his soul.
'Claude' writhed, back arching off the floor, every muscle straining. His hands clawed at the stone. His feet kicked wildly.
Then—
A black heart, slick and pulsing with strange ichor, was passed to Hugh by another cultist. Without ceremony, Hugh jammed it into the open chest cavity.
And just like that, 'Claude' went still.
No sound. No breath. No resistance.
'Claude' had died.
Yet Claude remained. Conscious. Trapped.
'Why am I still here…?' He thought, mind spinning. 'What was that heart…? And if the original body died—how is the body I inhabit still alive…?'
'Tsk!' Hugh scowled, flicking his hand to scatter the oily black blood that clung to his fingers.
"Another failure," he muttered. "We can't waste more time. Begin the preparations for the main ritual. We'll rely on that instead."
The cultists remained silent. Resigned. They had seen this result before. They had expected this. Murmurs burst from the crowd as they turned to leave.
Similarly, Hugh turned from the body, striding toward the exit, but... he paused.
"…Wait."
He froze. His eye was fixed on the body.
The others paused, sensing the change.
Silence fell. Thick, oppressive. Not a breath stirred.
Then—
Twitch.
The corpse on the altar shifted. A finger spasming in the faint light.