A new, tense order had settled over the shelter. It had been two full days since Damien's shocking reappearance from the depths, and the sight of their former lord, Bane, now a one-armed, subjugated slave, had fundamentally altered the psychology of the five hundred survivors. He followed Damien everywhere, a silent, hulking shadow, his one good eye always fixed on the floor. When Damien sat on the bone throne, Bane stood rigidly behind him, a living monument to his own defeat. When Damien walked the shelter, Bane followed exactly three paces back, his movements stiff and mechanical.
The reaction of the general populace was a mixture of profound terror and morbid curiosity. The usual low hum of activity in the main cavern now died to a hush whenever the pair passed. Conversations would stop mid-word, heads would bow, and eyes would become intensely focused on a patch of dirt, a loose thread on a tunic, anything other than the two figures. A mother, seeing them approach, would instinctively pull her child behind her skirt, shielding their eyes from the sight. And the moment they were out of earshot, the whispers would begin, a rustling tide of fear and speculation. They whispered about what their new Lord had done to their old one in the dark. They whispered about a power so absolute it could not only kill another Awakened, but break his very soul and wear him like a trophy.
Damien was aware of it all. He let the fear fester. Fear was a valuable and efficient tool for maintaining order.
He held a full operational meeting with his key lieutenants in the throne room. Fred, Jonas, and Elara stood before him, with Kenji and Zola standing slightly behind them. The air was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with the business at hand.
Jonas was the first to give his report, his hands, usually so steady and capable, nervously clutching a rolled-up schematic. His gaze kept flicking towards the silent, scarred figure of Bane standing behind the throne. The grizzled mechanic, a man who respected only function and physical laws, was struggling to process the scene. He couldn't look directly at his former master, his focus shattered by the sheer impossibility of Bane's subservient presence.
"The… the new baffles you designed for the Convector are being forged, Lord," Jonas stammered, his voice rougher than usual. "Rhys is overseeing it. And the designs for the new blast door are… progressing. We're having some trouble sourcing enough high-grade, untarnished steel plating from the vehicle graveyard."
"Cannibalize the lower structural supports from the western parking sector," Damien said without hesitation. "They are redundant since the ceiling collapse. The steel there is rated for high stress. It will suffice."
Jonas blinked, his practical mind immediately seeing the cold logic of the solution. "Aye, Lord. That… that will work."
Damien's gaze shifted to Elara. She, in stark contrast to Jonas, was a picture of perfect composure, though he noted the slight, almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles in her jaw. She was the only one who seemed to have fully processed the new dynamic, her mind already moving beyond the shock and into the realm of political calculation.
"The Mender's Bay, Elara."
"All is in order, Lord," she said, her voice a smooth, steady current in the tense room. "The last of the fighters from the barricade battle have been returned to duty. All medical supplies have been inventoried. Your... new acquisition," a flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes as she glanced at Bane, "has placed no strain on our resources. He seems to be… self-sufficient in his recovery."
After the reports were concluded and new production quotas were set for Zola, Damien dismissed them. His next stop was a personal inspection of the Mender's Bay. His stated purpose was to check on the recovery of his assets.
The main ward was quiet, the air thick with the smell of antiseptic Weeping Nettle. He saw a few survivors with minor injuries, their recovery progressing as Elara had reported. He didn't summon Leah. Instead, he saw her from a distance, sitting on the edge of her cot in a curtained-off section. She was staring blankly at the far wall, attempting to mend a tear in a piece of cloth with hands that trembled slightly. The defiant fire he had seen in her before, the rage that had driven her to challenge an Awakened, was gone. It had been replaced by a hollow, haunted look. The interrogation had broken something deep inside her.
He watched her for a moment, his face impassive. The process had been a success. The asset had provided the necessary data—the "Silent Level"—and had been neutralized as a political threat. Her current state was one of psychological collapse. A liability in the short term, but her known resilience suggested potential for future repurposing. Continued observation was required. He turned and left without a word, his presence in the ward having been a silent, chilling message to all its occupants.
Later that night, back in the spartan quiet of his private chambers, Damien observed his new, most valuable asset. Bane sat on a simple stool in the corner, his single eye staring blankly at the wall. His physical recovery was progressing at a rate that was, even by the standards of an Awakened, astonishing. The raw, pink tissue on his torso had been replaced by a network of thick, puckered scars. His thinner arm was slowly but surely regaining its mass.
A cold flicker of doubt, an intellectual itch, surfaced in Damien's mind. He retrieved Bane's main logbook from the footlocker and opened it to the section on regeneration. He read the entry again, the one detailing the agonizing, three-day process of regrowing a single hand. He then cross-referenced it with the state he had left Bane in after their duel in the pit: a mutilated wreck, nearly dead, with catastrophic, system-wide injuries.
He looked from the logbook to the scarred, recovering man in the corner.
The math didn't work. The timeline was impossible.
A man in that condition, a man who took three days to regrow a hand, could not have possibly recovered enough to move, let alone navigate a series of hidden utility tunnels to reach the Silent Level in the short time before Damien found him. The sheer energy cost, the biological trauma… it was a logistical impossibility.
Damien closed the logbook, a new, cold certainty settling in his gut, as clear and undeniable as one of his father's balance sheets. His initial search for a conspiracy had been premature, based on flawed data. Now, he had the truth. Bane's impossible escape wasn't a sign of his own hidden strength. It was a sign of a hidden weakness in the shelter.
The conclusion was inescapable.
He had help.