The ruins were silent, but Yurin Crimson heard everything.
Perched atop a jagged spire half a mile from the group, his cloak bled into the shadows as if the stone itself birthed him. His gaze was fixed on the broken watchtower where Evelyn, Damien, Zeke, and Clara had taken shelter. The faint glow around Clara's body pulsed with every exhale—a thread of his design, humming with his signature.
He closed his eyes, and the tether thrummed like a violin string against his mind. He didn't just see Clara; he felt her heartbeat, the rhythm of her breath, even the fractured dreams flitting through her unconsciousness. She dreamt of Evelyn's smile, Damien's reckless bravery, and the strange comfort Zeke offered despite his coldness.
And layered beneath it all—his whisper.
Yurin smiled faintly. Clara had resisted more than he expected. Most vessels broke early, crumbling beneath the weight of his influence. But Clara? She clung to her friends like an anchor, each tether of loyalty slowing his corruption. It was almost admirable. Almost.
"You're strong," Yurin murmured to the night. "But anchors sink as easily as they hold."
He opened his palm, and a red filament of light snapped into existence, stretching invisibly toward Clara's chest. It was delicate, elusive—yet strong enough to pull her soul apart, thread by thread. With a flex of thought, he tugged the filament.
In the watchtower, Clara stirred. Evelyn tightened her grip, whispering reassurances.
Yurin laughed softly, the sound more like a sigh. They think they protect you. They think they save you. But all they do is sharpen the knife for me.
He could push harder, force his will down the tether, seize her mind entirely. But no—that wasn't the game. Not yet. A direct assault would rouse Evelyn's fury, Damien's sword, Zeke's precision. He wasn't interested in open confrontation here. He wanted them broken long before blades crossed.
Patience. Always patience.
He turned his eyes toward Zeke, watching through Clara's subconscious imprint. That one was dangerous. Too sharp. Too unflinching. Yurin recognized the look in Zeke's eyes—the gaze of someone who had seen too many die, someone who calculated survival without mercy. Zeke would cut Clara down if he thought it necessary. Yurin almost admired him for it. Almost.
But admiration didn't mean mercy.
"Even you will bend, ledger-keeper," Yurin whispered. "When you realize your precision has already been outmeasured."
With a thought, he plucked the tether again, this time softer. Clara whimpered in her sleep, and Evelyn clutched her tighter. The bond of trust between them deepened, and Yurin grinned. That was the irony: every time Evelyn swore to protect Clara, she sank deeper into his web. Because when the moment of fracture came, the betrayal would carve deeper wounds than any blade.
He leaned back against the spire, lifting his face toward the crimson wound in the sky. The rift pulsed faintly, mirroring the heartbeat of his plan.
"Do you see them, old friend?" he asked the abyss above, as though speaking to something—or someone—listening beyond the tear. "Do you see how fragile they are? They'll burn each other long before they touch me."
The rift pulsed once more, as though answering.
Yurin chuckled, running a finger along the filament that connected him to Clara. "And you, little vessel. You will be the match that lights the fire. You'll tear them apart from the inside, and when the ash settles, they'll thank me for it."
He let the tether slacken, allowing Clara to sink into uneasy dreams again. The temptation to keep pulling was strong, but timing was everything. A single pluck at the wrong moment could alert Zeke, and that would spoil the fun.
Instead, he withdrew the filament into his palm, letting it vanish with a hiss of crimson sparks. The connection was not broken, merely quieted. A sleeping serpent coiled in Clara's chest.
Far below, Evelyn kissed Clara's forehead, whispering promises of safety. Damien muttered half-asleep jokes to hide his pain. Zeke sat with his eyes closed, feigning rest while his hand hovered near his blade.
And Yurin?
He simply watched. Waiting. Knowing.
"Pieces in place," he murmured, his voice carrying only to the void. "When the board shifts, the king will rise. And when I rise—" He smiled faintly, cruelly. "They'll realize the king was always the villain."
The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of ash. Yurin stepped back into the shadows of the spire, dissolving like smoke into the night.
But the tether still thrummed faintly, invisible and unbreakable. A reminder that even in sleep, Clara was not free. None of them were.