Kraft sat alone beneath the towering shelves of the royal library. Ancient tomes encased in dust loomed around him like silent judges. The boy—who was he? There were no records, no facial matches, no leads. Only a sick girl, a trail of ash, and a partner who hadn't checked in for hours.
Then his glyph vibrated.
He fumbled it open without hesitation.
"Lindsay here. I'm safe."
That was all.
Kraft froze.
Then bolted—out of the library, down the corridor, past startled servants. He didn't stop until he reached the castle gate. And then he waited.
Ten minutes passed. Then thirty. Then an hour.
Noon crept across the sky, but he remained—arms folded, foot tapping restlessly, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"You're going to wear a hole in the ground," a voice said.
He looked up, and everything dropped. "Lindsay—!"
She barely had time to react before he lunged at her, pulling her into a fierce embrace. "I thought you were—" His voice caught.
Then he exhaled, stepped back, rubbing his face like he could scrub the relief away. "I was worried, idiot."
She gave a tired smile. "I know."
"I have a hundred questions—"
"And no time for answers. The Chief is waiting."
They moved quickly through the palace, their footsteps echoing off the marble walls. Lindsay led them to the Chief's chambers and pushed the door open.
Empty.
"Where...?"
Then she spotted it. A slip of parchment on the desk, edges curled from heat.
She stepped in, frowning as she read:
"Experiment: [REDACTED]
Status: Terminated
Cause: Subject Interference
Result: Irrecoverable Loss"
And below it, scrawled hastily:
"All involved are to be questioned. No exceptions."
Lindsay barely registered the footsteps behind her until a quiet cough broke the silence. She spun—Chief Ivers stood in the doorway, unreadable as ever.
"You're back," he said.
She straightened, slipping the note back onto the table. "Sir."
"Come with me."
They walked in silence. Lindsay matched his pace but not his tension—his jaw was tight, his hands unusually still.
She broke the silence. "The boy. Who is he?"
"I don't know," Ivers admitted. "But there's someone who might."
They descended into the lower levels—The iron door groaned open, its hinges protesting after years of disuse. The air was thick with rot, mold, and something older—something buried.
Chief Ivers led the way, cane tapping with deliberate weight on the stone floor. Lindsay followed behind, uneasy. They stopped at the last cell in the corridor.
Inside sat a man curled in a corner, chained at the wrists and ankles. His eyes were sunken, his face gaunt—more corpse than prisoner.
Ivers struck the bars hard with the head of his cane.
CLANG.
The prisoner flinched violently, groaning as he stirred awake.
"Get up," Ivers said, voice sharp. "You're going to answer some questions."
The man blinked into the dim light, confused, half-lucid. "W-what...?"
Ivers didn't wait.
"The experiments. The ones conducted under facility seventeen. Who was involved. Who authorized it. And the test subjects—especially the boy."
At the word boy, the prisoner's eyes widened. He tried to back further into the corner, as if it would protect him.
"No… no, not him. You don't understand... We weren't supposed to touch him."
Lindsay stepped forward, disturbed. "Chief… he's terrified. What the hell happened in that lab?"
Ivers glanced at her but said nothing. He returned his gaze to the prisoner.
"You're not getting out of here. Whatever you're afraid of, it's already out there. So talk."
The prisoner shook his head violently.
"It wasn't an experiment. Not with him. We thought he was just another orphan. He wasn't. The scans—nothing matched. No mana signature. No baseline psyche imprint. He was a hole in our data."
Lindsay frowned. "What does that mean?"
The man laughed bitterly, a rasping sound that bordered on a sob.
"He didn't have a soul. Or maybe… maybe he had too many."
Ivers narrowed his eyes.
"Results. Give me results. What did he do to the other researchers?"
The man froze. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"They died. Not because he touched them. Not because he moved. They just... knew. Something inside them cracked. One of the head scientists began screaming about eyes that weren't there. Another begged for forgiveness for crimes he hadn't committed."
He paused, trembling.
"One of them—Dr. Malthe—he just stopped breathing. No cause of death. No wounds. Just... nothing. Like he gave up being alive."
Lindsay stared. "You're saying he killed them with fear?"
The prisoner met her gaze—eyes bloodshot, trembling.
"No. Not fear. Truth. Something about him peels back the lies we tell ourselves just to stay sane. We weren't prepared for that."
Ivers' jaw tightened.
"What is he?"
The prisoner slowly shook his head, voice cracking again.
"He doesn't belong in this world. Or any world. You think he's a child. But he isn't. He's a… mistake. An echo of something older. Something that slipped through."
He slumped against the wall again, exhausted. A long silence followed.
Then, barely audible:
"We shouldn't have tried to shape him. He doesn't fit in the mold."
And louder, almost a sob:
"He is the destruction of order."
With that, he passed out—whether from fear or exhaustion, no one could say.
Lindsay turned to Ivers, stunned.
He didn't speak right away. Just stared at the broken man behind the bars.
Then finally:
"I need to report this to the King."
She swallowed. "And the boy?"
"If you ever see him again… you do nothing."
The stone steps groaned under their boots as Lindsay and Kraft emerged from the dungeon. Evening had settled; the sky bled red behind the towers. Somewhere in the distance, bells marked the change of guard, but the weight in Lindsay's chest made it feel like the whole world had gone quiet.
Kraft walked beside her, arms folded tight. He hadn't said a word since they left the cell.
"I don't get it," he finally muttered. "They were scientists. Mages. Professionals. You don't just drop dead because you're scared."
Lindsay didn't respond.
"I mean—what the hell was that? 'No soul'? 'Too many'? That guy down there is insane."
"Maybe," Lindsay said, quietly. "Or maybe he just saw something you and I haven't."
Kraft stopped walking. "Lindsay. You saw the kid. He's thirteen. He made eggs and smiled like nothing's wrong."
She looked back at him, eyes colder than usual. "You're assuming that's his real face."
Kraft frowned. "You're not seriously buying into that crap about him being... some kind of eldritch mistake, are you?"
She didn't answer right away.
"I'm saying I've never seen a soldier shake like that. And I've fought men possessed."
Kraft turned away, jaw tight. "This isn't our job. We're guards. Patrol, report, arrest thieves. Not chase shadows from abandoned labs."
"No one's asking you to chase anything," she said. "Just—don't do anything stupid."
He glanced at her. "And what if he is dangerous?"
Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Then we do nothing. We let the higher-ups decide. We stay alive."
Kraft exhaled through his nose. "So we pretend we didn't hear any of that?"
She looked past him, up at the tower spires darkening against the sky.
"No. We remember it. Every word."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then she added, more to herself than to him:
"There's something wrong with him. Not evil. Just... wrong. Like something got built out of pieces that don't belong together."
Kraft didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
A week had passed. The girl was nearly recovered, and Reinhard had stayed longer than he intended.
He watched the boy quietly prepare food, moving with an almost mechanical grace. When the girl was out of earshot, Reinhard finally asked:
"She means a lot to you, doesn't she?"
The boy didn't look up.
"She's someone I need to protect."
Reinhard nodded slowly.
"And you?" he added after a beat. "Who are you, exactly?"
There was a long silence. Then the boy finally spoke:
"I'm no one. A child of no one. An orphan born from nothing."
Reinhard tilted his head. "That's not the full story, is it?"
The boy gave a faint, bitter smile.
"It's the part that matters."
At that moment, small footsteps echoed down the hall. Marie appeared, rubbing her eyes sleepily.
"Where's big brother…?"
Reinhard turned toward her, confused.
"Big brother?"
She looked around the room, then pointed straight at the boy.
He blinked, startled—almost like he'd forgotten she called him that.
Reinhard watched him, then smiled gently.
"She's lucky to have you."
The boy said nothing.
Later, as Reinhard gathered his things, the boy offered to teleport him back to Regin.
Reinhard paused, surprised.
"You can do that?"
The boy nodded once.
"Then… thank you."
They stood at the threshold.
Reinhard looked at Marie and smiled, kneeling slightly to meet her gaze.
"And what's your name, little one?"
She grinned, eyes bright.
"Marie!"
He patted her head gently.
"A beautiful name."
Then he turned to the boy, gave a final nod, and they both vanished.