The night following the decimation of the Stone-lizard nest was a quiet one. The distant, rhythmic work of the shelter had faded as most of the five hundred survivors turned in for their designated rest cycle. In his new private chambers—Bane's former sanctum—Damien sat at the simple metal desk. The faint, ethereal glow of a Glimmer Root in a jar cast long shadows on the walls, illuminating the pages of The Sunder Codex spread before him.
He closed the book. The combat trial had been a resounding success. It had confirmed the incredible properties of his conjured weapons and given him a baseline understanding of his own Saupa consumption under stress. His power was formidable, his control growing with every passing hour under the influence of his post-awakening boost. But the data had also confirmed a chilling reality: in a prolonged duel against a regenerating foe like Bane, his own energy reserves were the ultimate limitation. A blind hunt was a fool's gambit.
He needed more intelligence. He needed to know where a wounded king would go to lick his wounds. The locked tablet was a hard target, a puzzle for another day. But there was another source. A living one. An asset he had preserved for exactly this purpose.
It was time to interrogate Leah.
He rose from the desk and moved silently through the darkened throne room, his bare feet making no sound on the cold concrete. The main shelter area was hushed, the great fire pits now just beds of glowing, orange embers. The air was still and thick with the smell of sleep and dust. He walked toward the Mender's Bay.
The main ward was quiet, most of the cots holding sleeping figures breathing softly in the dim light of a few alcohol lamps. He found Elara in her private office in the back, grinding herbs with a stone pestle and mortar. She looked up as he entered, a slow, calculated smile touching her lips. The professional concern was gone, replaced by something more familiar and intimate in the late-night quiet.
"Lord," she murmured, her voice a low purr. "I did not expect you. Can I offer you a tonic? Something to help you rest after your… exertions."
"I require privacy," Damien said, his voice quiet but absolute. He nodded toward the curtained-off section where Leah was kept. "With the prisoner."
Elara's smile tightened for a fraction of a second. "Of course, my Lord. She is stable, but weak. I would advise against any… undue stress."
"Your advice is noted," he said, a clear dismissal.
She held his gaze for a moment longer, a silent contest of wills, before giving a small, graceful bow. "As you wish." She gathered a few things and swept out of the office, leaving him alone in the scented quiet.
He pulled back the curtain. Leah was propped up on her cot, awake. Her wounds were bandaged, but her face was pale and drawn. The moment she saw him, the weakness in her eyes was replaced by a familiar spark of pure, undiluted hatred.
Damien pulled a simple metal stool to her bedside and sat down. He didn't speak. He simply watched her, his face a calm, unreadable mask. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive. He allowed the natural pressure of his presence, the faint, passive weight of his Awakened aura, to fill the small space. It wasn't an aggressive act, not a flare of power like the one he had used to cow the shelter. It was the quiet, constant pressure of a mountain, a simple fact of his existence that she could not escape. He could see her breathing quicken, a fine sheen of sweat appearing on her brow.
When he finally spoke, his voice was disarmingly gentle. "Elara says your recovery is proceeding well," he said. "You have a strong constitution. That is a valuable trait."
Leah's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
"I have been studying your former lord," Damien continued, his tone conversational. "He was a meticulous man. But his logs are… impersonal. They speak of what he did, but not who he was. I am curious. Did he sleep much?"
The question was so mundane, so absurdly out of place, that it visibly unsettled her. She had braced herself for threats, for pain, for a continuation of the brutality from the pit. She had not prepared for quiet conversation. She remained silent, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"A man with his responsibilities must have had routines," Damien pressed on, his voice still calm, the pressure of his aura increasing by an infinitesimal degree. He could feel her rising panic like a scent in the air. "Did he have other projects? Things he worked on that he did not record in the main logs?"
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. He was bluffing now, pretending he knew more than he did, creating the illusion that he was merely filling in the blanks. "His notes on the deeper levels are particularly vague. A special project he was building. Tell me about it."
That was the key. The implication that he already knew, that her silence was pointless. Leah's defiant facade began to crack. She was physically weak, mentally traumatized, and now pinned by the quiet, soul-crushing weight of a power she could not fight. Her breathing became ragged. He could see the battle raging in her eyes—the instinct to resist warring with the desperate, primal urge to make the pressure stop.
The dam broke.
"The…" she started, her voice a dry, cracking whisper. She licked her lips and tried again. "The Silent Level." The words tumbled out, a desperate surrender. "He called it the Silent Level."
Damien's expression did not change, but inwardly he seized upon the new information. A name. A thread to pull. He had what he needed.
The pressure in the room vanished as if it had never been there. The release was so sudden that Leah gasped, slumping back against her pillows, trembling and drenched in a cold sweat.
"You have been helpful," Damien said, his voice now devoid of its feigned warmth, returning to its default state of cold neutrality. He stood up from the stool. "Continue to be helpful."
He left her there, her hatred now mixed with a new, deeper terror, and returned to his chambers.
He immediately went to the large, detailed map of the shelter he had taken from Bane's footlocker. He spread it across his desk, his eyes scanning the intricate schematics. He searched for any anomaly, any level or section that was unmarked or designated strangely. He found it. Far below the Glimmer Root Farms, in a section of the old hotel's deep foundation that the shelter did not use, was a blocky area outlined in red. It was labeled with a single, stark word: "QUARANTINE."
This had to be it. The Silent Level.
He picked up the comm device, his voice sharp with a new, focused purpose.
"Jonas. To my chambers. Bring the original foundation schematics."