The city was burning quietly.
Not with flames—yet—but with unrest. With whispers. With blood spilled in alleyways and names etched into prayer walls by loved ones too afraid to grieve aloud.
And Niegal Matteo—once Viscount, now exile, healer, and soldier—had never been more busy in his life.
It was better this way.
Work dulled the pain.
Work drowned the guilt.
Like nephew, like uncle.
He moved like a ghost through the undercity of Puerto Cuidad, cloaked not only in dark fabric, but in the shadow of duty.
A wounded rebel boy, not more than sixteen, coughing up blood from broken ribs after a brawl with a Church loyalist.
A frightened couple who hadn't registered their child's magical birth, now packing under his protection to flee the city under assumed names.
A small cluster of orphaned girls whose caretaker had vanished in a Church raid—they huddled in the basement of a shuttered apothecary, scraped knees and tearstreaked cheeks, until Niegal knelt to speak gently and wrap their wounds.
"You are not forgotten," he whispered to them, one by one.
All of it coordinated through the Behike, who never rested either. Their magic, their counsel, their maps and network of safehouses—Niegal depended on it. Without them, he would break.
He couldn't afford to stop moving.
Because if he stopped—
He would think of her.
He would remember the sound of her crying from that chamber.
He would remember what was taken.
When news had reached him—first of Seamus' rage in Parliament, and then of Elena's suffering at the hands of the Inquisition—he had shattered a glass with his bare hand.
The other healers had seen.
No one dared speak of it.
Now, as he patched up wounds and routed carriages down hidden roads, he carried that pain like a hidden knife.
And though he had no right, though he had sworn to stay away out of respect for Seamus' claim…
His heart ached for her.
He tried to tell himself it wasn't love.
Not in the way she and Seamus had blazed, devoured, and danced around one another.
But perhaps it was the kind of love that comes from admiration—from seeing someone suffer and survive, again and again, without ever losing their spirit.
Elena was like a tempest at sea—crashing, wild, beautiful.
She was not meant to be caged. Not meant to be beaten into silence.
And now…
Now she was broken in a way no one could quite fix.
He would've saved the child if he could.
Taken Elena far away if he'd been brave enough before.
And now… Seamus—his own blood—was wrapped in revenge so tightly he couldn't see what was right in front of him.
Niegal had spoken with Cheri once since Elena's return from the Inquisition.
Only once. And that was enough.
She'd appeared in the old alley behind the market, where messages passed hands like contraband. Rain-soaked and pale.
"She barely eats. Doesn't speak," Cheri whispered, voice trembling. "Seamus comes, sometimes. But he leaves just as quick. I think… I think he can't look at her without remembering."
Niegal's jaw tightened.
That night, he threw himself into another rescue mission.
That week, he saved thirteen people.
That month, he saved none of himself.
In the quiet of the Muerte JuJu sanctuary, deep beneath the old ruins outside the city, the Behike lit a lantern with slow, reverent fingers.
Niegal stood in the shadows, hands clenched, arms flecked with dried blood not his own.
"The winds are shifting," the Behike said calmly, not looking at him.
"The Saintess mourns. The Inquisition trembles. The child is gone. The city readies for war."
Niegal said nothing.
He had no words left.
"You've seen what vengeance has done to Seamus," the Behike added, voice low. "And what grief has done to her."
Silence.
"So, what will you do?"
Still, he did not answer.
The Behike turned, lantern casting strange flickers of green and gold across the walls.
"It is nearly time."
Niegal finally met their gaze.
His own silver eyes were empty coals.
"Fine," he rasped. "I'll wait."
"But I won't wait forever."
The city stirred. The people cried.
The Church doubled their patrols.
And in the dark, Niegal Matteo worked, heart breaking behind every wound he dressed and every escape he orchestrated.
He was waiting.
He was watching.
And when the time came?
He would rise.