Dem stared up the chute for several seconds, weighing the climb.
Then sense won.
Whatever lay above this mass grave was not alive anymore — only waiting to be washed down into the dark with everything else.
He turned instead, padding the perimeter, orienting himself by the rhythm of pipes entering and emptying the chamber.
There was no doubt.
He was beneath the Fourth Tower.
Some corpses were fresher than others. But none were Ciara.
Without hesitation, he tore open another pipe.
Rot and waste flooded the room, rising into a thick, foul soup that would've broken hardened men.
Rat Dem did not care.
He plunged into the river of filth and ran — not blindly, but with something like instinct wearing the mask of certainty.
If he had no intelligence…
Then he'd listen to the bones of the place itself.
The black rat emerged from a lavatory on the first floor of the Fourth Tower.
Filth slid from his sleek fur like peasants bowing before a king.
He paused. Listened.
Then slipped into shadow.
Two voices clashed in the corridor — polished and educated, the kind that never swore because they didn't need to.
"I demand entry at once!"
A man's voice, swollen with authority.
"You know perfectly well you can make no demands here. The Academy's contract with the crown makes the Fourth Tower a diplomatic embassy. Not even the Dean may overrule that."
"I have scryed her!" the man snapped. "My assistant is here. I know it."
"We both know divination fails inside the Tower. At best, you learned she's somewhere on Academy grounds." A pause. Then, deliberately cutting: "Or perhaps she's busy warming someone else's bed."
The insult was calculated.
Dem felt it land exactly as intended — a shove meant to invite violence.
But the man did not take the bait.
"Fourth Prince… I don't know how my assistant offended you. I promise you, it wasn't by design. Return her," his voice tightened, "and I will consider the matter closed."
Rat Dem recognized the gambit.
Appeal to restraint.
Offer dignity.
Present the illusion of choice.
The prince laughed.
To an untrained ear, it would've sounded sane.
To Dem, it rang hollow.
"Appealing to my royal blood?" the prince asked dryly. "In the Academy? That's rich. Titles don't exist here — which is why I endured years sitting beside gifted commoners who lacked even the decency to resent me properly."
There it was.
Madness.
Buried deep.
Quiet.
Smiling.
Dem knew the conversation was finished long before it ended.
The protesting professor withdrew, pale and defeated, while the Fourth Prince lingered — triumphant, unbothered. A moment later, the prince turned and ascended the spiral stair, unaware that a shape like flowing shadow followed him.
It did not stalk.
The hunt was already over.
The Fourth Prince turned right on the third level. His heeled boots rang against marble as he traced a sigil across a lacquered door. Locks clicked in obedient sequence. He pushed inside like a king entering court.
Without looking back, he dismissed the door with a flick of his hand.
The rat was already inside.
Dem knew the truth before his eyes finished taking the room in.
Ciara was alive.
Breathing slow, her skin warm — drugged but unbroken.
The black rat sprang, becoming man in mid-air.
Dem crossed the space in a blink and struck with a cupped hand. Bone cracked. The prince dropped to his knees, screaming as blood poured from his ruptured ear.
Dem barred the door, then dressed unhurriedly.
Only then did he turn.
"I heard something once," he said mildly, "and wanted to see if it was true."
"Bastard!" The prince clawed at the side of his head, voice shredded. "I'll have your head for this!"
Dem knelt beside Ciara and touched her forehead.
Warm.
Alive.
Then he stood.
Once, crouched outside a pub window with a stolen roast in his hands, he'd heard a drunk swear that mages couldn't cast without hearing. Blind ones existed. Deaf ones didn't.
He'd later learned that wasn't entirely true.
But untruth, he suspected, was often based on facts, though perhaps obscure.
"Can't cast?" Dem murmured as he felt the raging storm of mana inside the man — wild, unreadable, like a book flung into chaos. "Last words?"
The prince lurched for a table, seized a dagger.
Dem laughed softly.
"Go on. Try."
The blade fell from the man's fingers as if it had gone white-hot.
Dem approached with his hands in his pockets. Calm. Patient.
"Why did you take her?"
"She overheard something," the prince rasped. "A mistake, that's all! Listen— I can pay you. Gold! Whoever sent you, I can outbid them."
A blade slid into Dem's hand like it had always been there.
"Interesting."
"I can get Frostridge gold!" the prince blurted. "Enough for me to claim the throne!"
Dem smiled thinly. "The crown of Haral? A kingdom so small it barely deserves the title. But…"
The prince sagged in hope. "What? What do you want?"
"I require a name," Dem said gently. A second blade appeared. "Say it, and you'll purchase mercy."
"Whose?" the man sobbed.
"You said Frostridge gold. Tribals don't grow rich on wind and stories." Dem leaned closer. "Name your contact."
"They mine it!" the prince cried. "The Frostridges have had a gold mine for decades!"
"Name."
"G–Gerlac… Gerlac Frostridge!"
The mana storm inside the man finally stilled.
Dem felt it. "Time's up."
The dagger vanished into the bleeding ear and did not stop until it emerged from the other side of the prince's skull.
"Your mercy," Dem said quietly, "is a quick death."
Dem left the corpse where it lay and went to the sink.
He washed his hands.
Then his face.
Only once the water ran clear did he move again.
The room yielded its secrets quickly.
On the desk, he found a detailed map of Frost Ridge territory — and beneath it, a complete diagram of the mine. Work rotations. Shift schedules. Emergency air purge routines, annotated in a precise, disciplined hand.
He took the ledger from beside Ciara's restraints, cut her free, and carried her gently to the bed.
Then he sat.
And read.
The ledger named the operatives Burak had hired to infiltrate the mine.
It named the traitor.
Gerlac Frostridge.
"Betrayal from within," Dem murmured. "Taigon's not going to be happy."
The final pages weren't vague ambitions.
They were plans. The fourth son sought the crown and would use wealth to grab it.
His gaze swept the chamber and settled on a symbol etched faintly into stone.
"So that's it…" Dem said quietly. "The rune the mage from the mine was drawing when he died is a transmitter. This one?" He nodded toward the corner. "Receiver."
His jaw tightened.
"All that gold would've vanished—and no one would've known."
He looked at the prince's body and shrugged.
"Solid concept. You'd have had to kill everyone involved, though. Even your own helpers." A pause. "The good news? The Frostridges still have their gold. The bad news… Everyone involved will end up silenced. Taigon will wrap this up nicely."
He searched again.
Nothing personal. No keepsakes. No jewels.
"A mage prince without treasure?" Dem muttered. "Were you a pauper prince?"
On his third pass, he began emptying the wardrobe into his storage ring like he was casually browsing a noble's market stall.
"I should at least remove the evidence…"
He reached for the body — and then stopped.
Something gleamed.
Dem tugged the gold ring from Burak's hand and blinked when he felt its weight through the bond.
"Maybe Umi's right. Maybe I really am destined to find every storage ring in the kingdom."
He peeked inside — and almost dropped it.
"…Okay. Maybe not a pauper prince."
He grinned. "I'll give this to Sark after I empty it."
Nearly two hours later, Ciara stirred.
The room had been stripped of anything valuable.
Even the table she'd been bound to was gone.
Her eyes fluttered open.
"It's okay, Ciara," Dem said gently. "You're safe."
She flinched. "Please don't hurt me."
"It's Dem Swiftwind. Take your time."
"Dem…?" The name slurred in her mouth.
He set the tatzelwurm egg on his lap and dripped a few drops of high-berry onto the shell.
It purred.
"Want some?" he asked.
He lifted the flask to her lips.
She drank slowly, then sagged back into the pillow.
"Where… are we?"
"I believe this is the Fourth Tower."
Fear sharpened her through the drugged haze.
"Prince Burak—we have to go."
"He's gone."
She pushed herself upright, unsteady, and swayed against him.
"Gone how?"
"Just gone," Dem said — and eased her back into the bed.
Realization dawned. "Did you save me… again?"
"Not really," he said lightly. "I was following a lead. Burak was planning to rob the Frostridge clan. He'd already caused many deaths."
She sighed. "Liar. You saved me again."
Dem laughed and tucked the egg away.
"Are there any wards that'll stop someone like me from leaving the Academy?"
Ciara rubbed her temples. "How did you get inside?"
"Through the sewer."
She wrinkled her nose. "I see… No. There are no exit wards."
"How about I take you somewhere safer?" he asked.
Anywhere was better than here.
The Second Tower welcomed them in quiet lamplight.
Ciara's room was small but warm — books, blankets, a single narrow window looking toward the inner gardens.
Dem helped her up the five flights before lowering her onto the bed.
"How did you even know where to find me?" she whispered.
"I heard Burak arguing with a professor."
"Professor Tyveron… is he alright?"
"Very angry. Very alive."
Her eyes focused more clearly.
"But Burak's chambers were warded. How did you breach them?"
Dem shrugged. "He didn't even look over his shoulder when he opened his door."
She stared. "You followed him inside?"
"I followed him inside."
"Why was his room so empty?"
Dem smiled. "Dunno."
Then, gently:
"By the way — those simmons you gave me?"
She smiled tiredly.
"They were excellent."