I couldn't move, stuck on my knees, slumped forward in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Every part of me screamed to rest, but I knew I had to get up. I had to find Heather… and recover Kushim's body. He deserved a proper burial.
The only sliver of comfort I had was knowing his soul had moved on, freed from this wretched place. He'd once told me that, aside from me and his duty to Lord Thorne, nothing truly anchored him here. So I felt it would be best to bring him far from here.
Lifting my head slightly, I scanned the room.
Half-eaten food sat cold on silver platters. Ornate seats made from colored wood and decorative furs surrounded the shattered remains of nobility. My gaze drifted toward a shadow lingering in the far end of the chamber.
Dutchmund.
He no longer looked like the proud medical director of my youth. Age and guilt had worn him down to something gaunt and pale. But even now, he clung to that stiff, formal posture.
Slowly, he stepped closer.
"You know," he said quietly, "I put a great deal of care into making you. I… I was hoping for more. But maybe that wasn't fair of me."
He took another cautious step.
"Don't worry… they don't have your lover."
His tone was calm, maybe even kind. He stopped a few paces away and let out a sigh.
"This whole day… none of it has gone to plan. First His Majesty, then the Queen and my little Prince…"
At the mention of the prince, I saw a tear form in the corner of his eye.
"That monster killed them. I should've seen the signs, I'm supposed to be the expert in this field. Demons, devils… Deva. But she managed to bind a very slippery one, and for how long… I can't say."
He rubbed his face with both hands, grief cracking the mask of professionalism.
"But it doesn't matter now. The king is dead. His bloodline is shattered. And the plan is in pieces."
After a moment of silence, he knelt beside me and gently reached toward my wing.
"I can't claim to know much beyond the disassembly of Deva," he admitted. "But that should be enough to figure out what's wrong. Just… let me work, Edric. Please."
His hand moved softly across the wounded joint, careful not to cause more harm.
I gave a faint nod. I didn't have the strength to speak.
I wasn't an expert, but I knew now just how crippling a wing injury could be. If I'd understood the risk, maybe I would've kept the seal in place. But if I had… I wouldn't have defeated the lich. Kushim would never have earned his rebirth.
So I'd take the pain. Learn from it. I would let this pain and hate burn cold for now. But the next time I encountered the princess, I would incinerate her soul into oblivion, devil or demon be damned.
That sliver of thought was the only thing keeping me distracted while the director did what he needed to. I felt him grip the base of my wing and shift the broken part.
I clenched the handle of my blade to endure it, the veins on my arm bulging as my knuckles went white from the pressure. Eventually, it seemed like he had set it.
"I don't have anything to hold it in place, so be careful while moving," he said. "But considering how fast your body heals, you just need energy for now. Hold on, I'll bring you something to eat."
He stood and walked over to the silver plates, picking up what looked like some kind of roasted animal. I didn't recognize it, but my mouth watered just looking at it.
"Eat. It's a meal fit for a king, you know. I'll be back, I need to find Thorne. If you stay here, I'll know where to find you. And let's be honest—you're not really fit to be moving around right now."
Without another word or a glance back, he walked to the door and left, leaving me alone in the room at last.
I looked down at the roasted animal. I still couldn't place what it was, but it looked good enough. Lazily, I reached out, tore a piece off, and brought it to my mouth.
The flavor hit me all at once. It wasn't the salt or fat that bothered me—I'd grown up on salted scraps and preserved meat. This was different. Over-seasoned. Sickly sweet. Coated in strange oils and spices that clung to my tongue like the perfume of the nobles turned rancid.
Still chunk by chunk, I ate until there was nothing left. My stomach felt full, but queasy. Oil coated my fingers, and I wiped them on the floor without thinking.
I wanted to lie down, but that felt like a bad idea with my wing in its condition. So I stayed still… and simply closed my eyes to rest.
I listened, my ear twitching at the distant echoes of shouting and crashing reverberating through the halls. The chaos was drawing closer, whoever had attacked the arena was tearing through the place one door at a time. It wasn't long before I heard the clang of metal boots striking stone… and the harsh scrape of something heavy being dragged just outside the door.
I shifted slightly, and to my surprise, Dutchmund had been right, my wing was better. Not healed, but maybe the cartilage had started to bind again. The agony had dulled, no longer searing… Now it was more like a dagger being dragged along the bone.
Slowly, I rose to my feet and steadied my blade. I didn't know if I had the strength to fend off another fight, but if I looked strong, looked dangerous, maybe I wouldn't have to.
I extended my wing as far as I could, forcing it wide to cast a larger silhouette.
The banging at the door made my ears ring, it echoed in time with my heartbeat.
BANG… BANG…
…BANG.
With the final strike, the door flew open, the lock and handle clattering uselessly as they swung by a single bent screw. I was fairly certain Dutchmund hadn't even locked it.
That somehow made me pity the door even more.